


If Morning Never Comes To Be

by emptydistractions



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Canon-Typical Violence, Creepy Brock Rumlow, Cute Dogs, EMP, End of the World, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Ex-Best Friends, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-10-29 03:44:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 64,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17800460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emptydistractions/pseuds/emptydistractions
Summary: "It's just a matter of time before a dirty bomb goes off in Moscow, or an EMP fries Chicago."-Alexander PierceBucky Barnes has never had much time to think about his future. Between helping manage the family farm, taking care of his little sister, and doing his best to forget all about his former friend Steve Rogers, he's barely keeping it together. But then something happens that no one sees coming. Something catastrophic.Now, together with his little sister and the one person on earth he'd really rather forget, Bucky will have to learn how to survive in a world that seems dead-set on killing them all.Hell, the way it's going these days, he'll be lucky to see tomorrow.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution to the Stucky AU Big Bang! I had so much writing this and I hope you have just as much fun reading it. It's a fusion of the Stucky pairing with the world and plot beats from the book One Second After (which is a fantastic book and everyone should give it a shot), but is completely Stucky and not a crossover in any way. 
> 
> The biggest thank you ever to [spikeymarshmallows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikeymarshmallows/pseuds/spikeymarshmallows) for all the cheerleading and encouraging. This story wouldn't have gotten finished without her.
> 
> Also, to my two amazing artists, who brought the story to life in ways I couldn't. Thank you [Starsknice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsknice/pseuds/starsknice) and [founderofshield](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceshipdear/profile)!!!
> 
> Another huge thanks to [Lillaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lillaby/profile) for the amazing beta job. Another person without whom this story would not exist as it does now.
> 
> Come squeal at Stucky stuff with me on [tumblr!](https://emptydistractions12.tumblr.com/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come squeal at Stucky stuff with me on [tumblr!](https://emptydistractions12.tumblr.com/)

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This was torture, Bucky decided, tapping his fingers against his thigh in a staccato pattern of nerves. _Tap tap tap one two three._ His eyes scanned the road. Nothing. It was as still as it had been for the past half hour. He slouched further down against the fencepost and tipped his head up to the sky, shaking wild strands of windblown hair from his face. _Tap tap tap one two three._

The day was beautiful, with the azure cloudless sky doing nothing to reflect the storm roiling inside him. His fingers drummed faster. _Tap tap tap tap tap._ Around him, the wind stirred the grass and rustled the leaves of nearby trees, washing him with the scent of summer heat. A sound caught his ear and he perked up, eyes already scanning the road. The land around him was flat and the road stretched out for miles. He could see the car coming long before the people inside would ever see him. Dust swirled in the distance as it was kicked up by car tires. He watched the disturbance get closer and closer, and suddenly his nerves were screaming at him again. It was like his stomach had crawled up into his throat and was trying its damndest to fight its way out of him entirely. 

God, this was a stupid idea. Whose idea had it even been? (His, definitely his.) Was it too late to back out? Just call up Steve and tell him to forget the whole thing, turn around, get back on the plane and go back to New York where he belonged? The rumble of the engine grew closer. Definitely too late for all that. 

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he took his eyes off the approaching car long enough to glance at the screen. It was from Steve. _Here. Can’t wait to see you._

Should he answer? Bucky hesitated, thumb hovering over the words. Was Steve expecting a response, or was he just being polite? He tapped the side of the phone and it went dark. No sense in answering. Steve had only been warning him he had arrived. He’d never been out to the farm; there was a lot of land and a lot to see. So much that he probably hadn’t yet caught sight of Bucky leaning against the fence. 

Excuses, all of it. But how did he answer something he had no answer for? He didn’t know if he was excited to see Steve. Nervous, yes. Anxious and nauseous and feeling like his heart was trying to kick its way out of his sternum, absolutely. But excited? He wasn’t sure on that one. Didn’t matter now anyway. Steve was here, no matter how Bucky felt about it.

Gravel crunched loudly under the tires as the cab slid to a stop in front of the gate. Then the door opened and a blonde head, so utterly unrecognizable and yet so achingly familiar, popped out. Steve scanned the area and caught sight of Bucky and he smiled. He seemed nervous. Good, maybe he was just as nervous as Bucky. Maybe they could be nervous together. They used to do everything together; it might be nice to be that way again even for just a moment. 

He pushed himself away from the fence he’d been leaning on and started toward Steve as the cab driver, who had gotten out while Steve and Bucky had been sharing an intensely uncomfortable stare, pulled a suitcase out of the trunk.

“Hey, Clint.” A smile came easily to Bucky’s face now that he wasn’t looking at Steve. Clint threw him a lazy salute as he dropped the suitcase at Steve’s feet and swung himself back into the driver’s seat. 

“Long time no see, Barnes. When’s the last time you were in town? Nat misses you.”

“It’s a long drive. Tell her I miss her too.”

Clint made a face as he snapped the seat belt into place. “I refuse to be the middle-man to your gross flirting with my girlfriend. Come tell her yourself. Everyone’s getting together this weekend at our place.” He nodded at Steve, who was fiddling nervously with the straps of his backpack. “And bring this guy. Otherwise no one’s gonna believe me when I tell them you have friends besides us.”

Bucky responded by flipping him the middle finger as Clint pulled the door shut and drove off, giving Bucky a shit-eating grin through the window. And then, just like that, it was only the two of them. Bucky and Steve. _Together again_ , he thought bitterly before he could stop himself. The sound of the car faded away until all that was left was the awkward silence between them, broken here and there by the sounds of nature. As they stood there, neither quite willing to look the other in the eye, Bucky was suddenly overcome by the intense wish that some of that nature would come and put him out of his misery.

Unfortunately, the ground didn’t open up to swallow him whole and there were apparently no hungry wild animals in the area, so the silence remained just as awkward and uncomfortable. “So-“ he finally began.

At the same time that Steve started up, “I know-“

They both paused and Steve cleared his throat while Bucky scratched the toe of one of his sneakers through the dirt. 

“Um,” Steve tried again, a weak smile on his face. “Nice guy.” He hitched a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the direction in which the cab had disappeared.

“Yeah, Clint’s a good guy. Kind of a walking disaster, but a good guy.”

“Ah, that’s...good.”

The silence returned and Bucky quickly found he couldn’t tolerate it a second time. “Do you wanna go put your stuff away?”

Steve looked down, as if surprised to find his suitcase still at his feet. “Yeah, sure.” He nodded. “That would be good.”

“Good,” Bucky replied. He wondered how many times you could repeat a word in a single conversation before it became one too many. They were probably already well past that point. For the moment though, at least there was a task, something to do. Bucky latched onto it for all that he was worth. “So, uh, I’ll show you around. That’s the house,” he said, pointing. _Way to state the fucking obvious, idiot._ He grimaced. “You could probably tell that.”

“It looks nice,” Steve said. He was far too polite to point out Bucky’s stupidity. He’d always been too polite, even back when Bucky had known him like a brother. 

Bucky forced himself to move, not wanting to dwell on the uncomfortableness of the situation any longer. He reached for Steve’s suitcase. “Here, I’ll take that.”

“No, it’s okay,” Steve said, reaching as well. “I got it.” 

Their hands met in the middle and Steve withdrew his like he had accidentally touched a hot stove. Bucky stared resolutely at the luggage and tried hard not to think about anything else. “You’re a guest,” he said, and hefted the bag off the ground. It wasn’t overly heavy, but then again, Steve had never been much for material things. “Besides, I hate to think about what my mother would say if she saw me letting a guest carry their own suitcase.” He suppressed a brief shudder. He was twenty-two and his mother was just as intimidating as she had been when he was young, even though he now stood a foot taller than her and was at least thirty pounds heavier. “Come on.”

Steve kept pace with him as they walked down the small gravel path that ran from the main road, through the gate, and to the house. “I thought your parents were still out of town?”

Bucky snorted and then winced as the suitcase banged against the side of his leg. “They are. But what can I say, she trained me well.”

Steve smiled, a wistful look on his face. “Guess so.”

They walked in a near-silence that was broken every few seconds by the sound of the gravel crunching under their feet. It was only slightly more comfortable than before. The late afternoon sun beat down on their backs, and the neck of Bucky’s t-shirt was damp with sweat. Most of the summer had been a real scorcher, and the late August afternoon was no exception.

“So this is where you’ve been living?” Steve asked. He immediately made a face, like he regretted the question. 

“Yeah,” Bucky said, waving a hand at the house and its surroundings. “It’s not so bad. Quiet. Tons of land. Mom and Dad have been thrilled.”

“And you?”

Bucky looked away from Steve’s thoughtful gaze and swallowed back a sudden lump in his throat. Where had that come from? “It’s… different. Pretty far away from, well, everything really.” He looked up, pasting a painfully fake smile on his face. “But I guess that’s why they wanted to move us out here in the first place. Plenty of peace and quiet.”

They continued to walk. The wind blew through the fields around them, sending stray hairs tickling at Bucky’s temple and rolling through the grass like a great tidal wave of green and sunburnt gold. It was beautiful in that quiet, gentle way that only the countryside could be. Living out here everyday, Bucky sometimes forgot how nice it actually was. But now he couldn’t help imagining it all through Steve’s eyes: what was he seeing and what did he think of it? Did he think it was all ridiculous compared to the quick pace and manic energy of Brooklyn? Bucky suddenly felt defensive of his home. It certainly hadn’t been his choice to move out to a little plot of land outside of nowhere, Indiana. Hell, as a teenager it might as well have been the end of the world- the end of Bucky Barnes’ world at least. But he was older now, and he knew that there were worse things than a bit of isolation and spotty wifi. 

Steve’s eyes grew in surprise as they approached the house and Bucky tried to look at it from a new perspective. The one-storey ranch-style house itself was large and sprawling, especially in comparison to what they had both grown up with. Steve’s entire childhood apartment would have fit in the living room. The house, with its cheerfully painted white and blue exterior and large arched windows, had been part-and-parcel with the land that his parents had purchased. No one had been more surprised then them after all their idle talking about moving the family out to the countryside for a quieter life suddenly became not quite talk at all. 

“This is-“ Steve started.

Bucky interrupted him. “I know it’s a bit much,” he muttered. He felt suddenly ashamed, and feeling ashamed made him angry. Why should he feel bad? Nothing about this had been his choice. His parents had moved him out here and then Steve had- 

Well, that wasn’t important now.

One of the things that had made Winnie Barnes originally fall in love with the house was the huge wrap-around porch, with its pillars and sun-weathered wood. There were plants, merrily overgrowing their pots, sitting on nearly every surface, and the stairs, though worn and creaky, were strong. A porch swing swayed gently in the breeze as Bucky yanked open the front door. His mood was tumultuous, heart beating up a steady rhythm and blood pounding against his eardrums like an overly enthusiastic orchestra

“Living room,” Bucky said as passed through it. Steve nodded and continued beside him, quiet. It was oddly incongruous, how someone as large as Steve was could seem so shrunken in on himself. And Steve was _large._ Bucky watched him discreetly out of the corner of his eye. He had seen pictures of him on Facebook, of course, when Steve first reached out to him. But it was one thing to see someone in a picture, and another thing entirely to have that person so close that Bucky could smell the deep, musky scent of his aftershave. The last time he’d seen Steve, he hadn’t even been able to grow facial hair, and now here he was, a few inches taller than Bucky and at least twenty pounds heavier- all of it seemingly muscle. If it weren’t for the familiar cornflower blue of his eyes, Bucky might think he was being tricked. _Six years,_ he reminded himself harshly. _Six years, and you thought he’d what... just stay the same sixteen year old kid forever? Stupid._

“Kitchen,” he said, pointing off to his left. He wished Steve would say something. Had the house always seemed this big and echoey? “Um, feel free to grab food anytime you want. No need to ask. I mean, you’re here for a week and all.”

Oh God, and what a long week it was going to be. 

He led Steve through the house and to the guest room, pointing out the door to the back porch, the mudroom, hallway, and other bedrooms. Besides a few nods and mundane niceties about his mother’s color scheme, they spent the entire time in stilted, agonizing silence. 

The guest room was small and bright, painted in pale yellows and bright blues. The afternoon sun slanted in through the windows and lay in thick stripes on the carpet. Bucky dropped Steve’s suitcase at the foot of the bed and rubbed absently at his thigh where he’d banged the damn thing more than once during their very awkward tour. 

There was a soft thump as Steve dropped his backpack onto the bed and looked around. He opened his mouth to say something, but clammed back up just as quickly. Bucky raised a questioning eyebrow, and Steve swallowed thickly before continuing. “Thanks for, um, letting me come stay with you,” he said, offering a smile that might as well have been a grimace.

“Of course,” Bucky replied automatically. It was one of those things people said, wasn’t it, to be polite? He wondered what the proper etiquette was for talking to an ex-best friend he hadn’t seen since high school. _Hey, haven’t seen you in forever, sorry you broke my heart and all, how’ve things been with you?_

Well, fuck that. He was tired of polite. Had been since the moment he first saw that facebook message. 

“Steve,” he started, the question forming itself in his mind even as he spoke. “Why did you-“

He was interrupted by a high-pitched screeching eerily akin to a dying cat. The source of the noise knocked Steve nearly off his feet, crashing into his side with all the blunt force and subtlety of a fifteen year old girl. 

“Steve!” The squealing lowered in tone and resolved itself into the voice of his little sister as she hugged Steve with a strength that was disproportionate to her size. The look on Steve’s face was hilarious. Bucky, who had been on the receiving end of a Becca Barnes hug on more than one occasion in his life, was honestly impressed that Steve was still breathing. He couldn’t even get his arms around her; she had them pinned to his sides under the force of her youthful excitement. Bucky gave it a few more seconds before saying anything; ten because he knew Becca really _was_ excited about seeing Steve, and then another ten because the look of shock on Steve’s face really was the one bright spot in what had been so far an extremely tense afternoon. Becca didn’t even hug their parents like that, so it wasn’t often that Bucky got to see one of her hugs in action.

“Alright, Becca, that’s enough,” he finally said, watching as she eased up the pressure to Steve’s abdomen. Over her head, Steve shot him a grateful look.

“But I missed him!” she exclaimed as she let go reluctantly.

“You don’t even know him,” Bucky said. “You were nine when we moved.” The tone was a lot harsher than he had intended, his words ringing in the suddenly quiet room. He winced and tried to cover. “You know what I mean, Becs.”

She glared at him. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t miss him, _James._ Just because _you_ stopped talking to him doesn’t mean everyone has to as well.” She stomped out of the room with all the indignity that a teenager could muster. Which, as it turned out, was a whole lot. 

He looked at Steve, who was raising his eyebrows in Bucky’s direction. “She first named you,” he said. “Ouch.”

Bucky resisted scowling. She was wrong, acting like it was Bucky who had ended the friendship. She didn’t know what had really happened. No one did. “Somehow I’ll live,” he finally answered, swallowing down as much of the hostility as he could. No need to make a bad situation even worse. He eyed the door. At least she had refrained from slamming it. He was in charge of her while his parents were out of town, and normally it wasn’t a big deal, but he really hated having to discipline her. “She’ll be fine,” he said more to himself than anyone else. 

“Look, Buck, what she said-“

“It’s not-“

“It is,” Steve finished for him. Bucky didn’t know what to say back. “Listen, I know we kind of fell out, and I feel like it’s a least a little my fault.”

“Mostly your fault,” Bucky said reflexively before he could stop himself. 

Steve winced. “Mostly my fault,” he conceded. “But I just want you to know that I didn’t- I mean, I don’t-. I was a stupid kid, you know?”

Bucky laughed drily. “I know a thing or two about being a stupid kid, yeah.” He looked at Steve then, the first look since he’d stepped out of the car that wasn’t stolen furtively while they were walking. Steve was older, a man now, but still the boy he had been in so many ways. His hair was still the same golden blonde, the cut of it still short and neat, and his eyes filled with same open expression, though more wary than they had been when he was young. All the traces of baby fat were gone from his cheeks, and his face was full of sharp angles with just a hint of five o’clock shadow darkening his jaw. “Let’s just start over,” he said finally, and Steve’s eyes brightened visibly at the extended olive branch. “Here,” he said and stretched out his hand in the space between them. “I’m Bucky.”

Steve hesitated for a microsecond before reaching out a hand of his own and clasping Bucky’s. “Steve,” he said with a smile that was brighter than anything Bucky could remember. It was a little bit like being trapped in a very small room with the sun. It might light him up from the inside or it might burn him to a crisp. He wasn’t sure he liked either option at the moment.

Steve’s hand wasn’t soft like he remembered, but firm and strong, and at closer inspection there were flecks of paint under his nails. Bucky knew his own hands had changed too, just like the rest of him, strong and calloused from working out in the sun. Their hands stayed locked together just a bit too long, both of them lingering, reluctant to break the contact. Bucky was the first to pull back, not giving himself time to dwell on the feelings that Steve’s touch had brought swimming up to the surface; feelings both old and new and exhilarating and frightening all at once.

“I’ll just, um, let you unpack,” Bucky muttered, tucking his hand safely into his pocket. He only barely managed to contain his desire to bolt from the room, resulting in a bizarre, stiff-legged march as he resolutely ignored the look on Steve’s face.

As the door swung shut behind him, Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t even been aware he’d been holding. What had he been thinking, inviting Steve to stay for a week? Of course Becca and his parents had been thrilled. They’d been interrogating him for years about his friendship with Steve and _why it had ended and what was he going to do about it and on and on and on_ until Bucky wanted to scream that it wasn’t even his damn fault it had ended in the first place. He hadn’t though. Better not to sour any more memories than he had to.

His feet led him through the house and out the back door to the porch, an exact match for the one out front. From the top of the steps he had a perfect view out to the trees that lined the edge of the property, giving way gradually to the thickness of the woods and the half-repaired barn that his dad swore one day would hold horses if he ever got around to fixing it. A dog, her fur such a mottled mix of black and white it almost looked blue from the distance, lay stretched out on the grass, asleep in the sun.

The dog’s black ears perked up as Bucky approached and she got to her feet, stretching and yawning. “Hey there, Winter,” Bucky murmured softly as he dropped into a crouch, burying his hands in her wiry fur. He ducked his head and chuckled as she attempted to lick his face. “At least you love me.”

“Only cause you feed her.”

There was a faint rustling of grass and then Becca plopped down next to him. Winter immediately abandoned him to nose at Becca’s hand until she laughed and started to scratch behind her ears. 

“Traitor,” Bucky muttered as he settled in beside Becca. The ground was warm, late afternoon heat soaking through his clothing and making him sweat. The grass beneath him was green and soft, overgrown just a bit. He’d have to mow it soon. For a moment, the two of them sat in companionable silence, the only sounds Winter’s panting breaths and the calls of far-off birds. 

“Sorry for being a brat,” Becca finally said, turning towards him. Winter whined at the sudden loss of attention.

Bucky chuckled and threw an arm over her shoulders, hugging her to him. She was impossible to stay mad at, even if he had wanted to. “Don’t worry about it.” She rolled her eyes, but indulged him in the moment of brotherly affection before shaking his arm loose and turning her attention to Winter again. The dog sprawled on the ground, rolling to give Becca access to her tummy, tongue hanging out of her mouth as she wheezed with happiness. 

“Steve got _big_ ,” she said after a moment. Bucky choked on sudden laughter and Becca stuck her tongue out at him. “Well, he _did_.”

He reigned in his laughter to reply. “Kind of thought he’d stay scrawny forever.” He couldn’t help the wistful tone that crept into his voice. A sudden breeze blew across the yard, ruffling his hair and causing a few stray strands to tickle his face. He tucked them more firmly behind his ear. 

Becca elbowed him gently. “You okay?”

He stared straight ahead, watching the leaves of the trees shift and shake in the wind. “I’m nervous,” he admitted. “It’s been six years. I’m not really sure what to say to him.”

“You know, you wouldn’t have to be nervous if you just apologized for whatever you did.”

“Why do you assume _I’m_ the one who needs to apologize?”

“Because I know you. I mean, I’ve only lived with you _your entire life_.”

He pursed his lips. “How does so much hatred fit into such a tiny little body? Ouch!” She elbowed him again, hard this time. He rubbed at his ribs as she giggled. “No one really did anything wrong. We just sorta fell out,” he said as her giggling subsided.

“I thought you guys were like, best friends.”

“We were.” He shrugged. “But we moved out here, and stopped talking, and then he went off to college and I stayed home with you guys, and we just… lost touch.”

It was a half-truth, at least.

“Well that was stupid.” Becca said bluntly, interrupting his troubled reminiscing. She was giving him an exasperated look.

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow at her. 

“If you guys were best friends you should’ve tried harder. I know I’d _never_ let that happen to me and Kate.” He wanted to be angry at her, at the insinuation that once again all of this was somehow his fault, but he couldn’t. She spoke with the confidence of someone young; someone who hadn’t yet been disappointed by people or had their heart broken. Someone who hadn’t been disappointed in themselves yet. It made him grateful to think she hadn’t.

He smiled. “Next time I feel the urge to lose contact with a good friend, I’ll come ask for your advice first. How’s that?”

She rolled her eyes at him again and shoved playfully at his side. “Ugh, you’re an idiot.” Giving Winter one last pat on the head, she stood, dusting bits of grass off her jeans. “I’m going over to Kate’s,” she announced. 

“You could at least _pretend_ to ask permission. I’m supposed to be in charge, remember?”

She clasped her hands together and batted her eyes sweetly at him. “May I please go to Kate’s? Pretty please with sugar on top?”

“Your sarcasm has been noted and is unappreciated.”

She dropped the sickly-sweet act and laughed. “Cool. I’ll just take the car then, and be back around eight?”

It was his turn to laugh. “Oh, nice try,” he said, shaking his head at her. “Good effort but no dice. Take your bike.”

She glared down at him. “You know, one day I’ll have my license and then you’ll have to share the car with me.”

“But today is not that day, Becca.” He laughed at the annoyance on her face. “Seriously though, do you want me to drive you? I’m not crazy about the idea of you biking back here in the dark.”

“I’ll be fine, _mom_.” She turned on her heel and started to walk away from him. 

“Well, excuse me for caring,” he muttered, partially under his breath. Then, at her retreating back, he yelled, “Make sure you check your blood sugar before you go!”

Her response was to whip around, stick out her tongue, and flip him off. 

“Lovely,” he said to Winter, who was now lying with her head on his thigh. She stared up at him with somber brown eyes. “You see what I have to deal with? Being a dog must be nice.” She yawned at him in response, pink tongue curling in her mouth.

Bucky heard his footsteps long before he saw him. Steve moved like someone who’d shot up overnight and wasn’t quite comfortable with their new size. His heavy tread came to a stop somewhere behind Bucky’s right shoulder. 

“She’s really grown up.”

Bucky twisted around to look at Steve, who was watching Becca as she pulled her bike out of the shed. 

“Yeah,” he said, a little sadly. “She really has.”

“And who’s this?” Steve said, dropping to his haunches. Winter perked up at the possibility of attention from a stranger, getting to her feet and stretching, before trotting over to stand in front of Steve expectantly.

“Winter,” Bucky said, as Steve held out a hand for the dog to sniff. She licked his fingers and Steve grinned.

“You always wanted a dog.”

Bucky watched as Steve quickly became Winter’s new favorite person. _I don’t blame you_ , he thought. “Yeah, I was such a brat when we first moved here. I think Mom and Dad got me a dog just to try and give me something else to do with my time besides annoy them.”

Winter, having decided that Steve’s fingers had been thoroughly inspected, jumped up and put her front paws against his chest. Balance upset, he landed with loud grunt in the grass next to Bucky. Winter was delighted with herself, clambering over her now helpless prey and trying to lick his face. Bucky laughed as he watched Steve attempt to hold her back. Finally, after a few more moments of slobbery doggy kisses, he took pity on Steve.

“Down, Winter,” he said. She obeyed, settling down in front of them, but not without a huff in Bucky’s direction to let him know she was annoyed. “You’ll get over it,” he said to her. 

“Lucky,” Steve said, settling into his spot on the ground. “I moped around the apartment for weeks after you moved and all I got was extra chores.

“Well, at least you got over it pretty quickly.” The snide remark was out of his mouth before he could stop it. Steve winced like he’d been struck and suddenly it was like all the air had been sucked out of the space around them.

“I’m sor-“

“Maybe we should just not talk about it.”

Steve’s mouth twisted to the side, like it hurt to keep the words back. “I really am sorry, Bucky.”

“It’s fine,” he replied sharply. It wasn’t fine at all. He knew that Steve could tell he was lying through his teeth, but he didn’t care. As long as it got him out of this conversation. “Past is the past. Leave it there.”

The air was suddenly filled with an odd noise. They both stared as Steve’s stomach rumbled again, and it was like all the tension had dissipated. He couldn’t help but think, _Thank God for that_. Bucky raised an eyebrow as Steve laid a hand over his noisy stomach. “You hungry?”

Steve’s mouth turned up slightly at the sides in a wry smile as he glanced down at the hand on the flat of his abdomen. “I guess so. Last time I ate was this morning.”

A while ago then. The sun was just now starting its downward descent, the twilight sky tinged with the lightest streaks of orange and purple. Despite the fact that evening was slowly creeping in, it was still uncomfortably hot. Bucky just wished fall would hurry up already. 

He unfolded his legs and pushed himself up, groaning as his muscles stretched. “Come on, I’ll make you something,” he said, and took off towards the house. Steve trailed behind him, eyes flicking every which way as he took in the yard and surrounding land. It made a particularly impressive picture at the moment: the sloping yard with its emerald-green grass, the dark line of the woods on the property line, and the seemingly endless flat fields that stretched out to either side. The nearest neighbor was almost three miles away.

“This is really nice.” There was the tiniest bit of awe in Steve’s voice as he spoke. 

“You said that earlier.”

“Well, it _is_ nice. Must have been good to grow up here.”

“It was okay.” _You weren’t here, so it was kind of garbage._ “I dunno.” He shrugged. “I was...too angry to appreciate it, but I think it was a good move for Becca. So I guess in the end it was fine. Could’ve been worse, at least.” 

“Yeah, well, you could’ve moved to Jersey.”

The laugh bubbled up, completely unexpected. For just a moment, it felt like it used to, none of the awkwardness and uncertainty, just the two of them laughing and smiling. The moment quickly faded, but at least Bucky felt the tension ease a bit. A slight smile lingered on Steve’s face as they walked. 

With Steve still following, Bucky made his way across the back porch and through the back door, which opened into the mudroom. Past that was the large, open-plan living room and kitchen. The vaulted ceilings made the whole room seem bigger than it was, and the late afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, bathing the entire place in a golden, glowing warmth.

Steve stopped at the threshold of the kitchen, where the dark hardwood floors turned to dark tan tile. “Do you want any help, or…?”

“Sit,” Bucky commanded. Obediently, Steve took a seat at the long, marble-topped island that served to separate the kitchen and living space, while Bucky moved deftly through the kitchen, pulling out pots and pans, a handful of ingredients, and set the oven to preheat. Pulling a large knife from the block, he made quick work of cutting up some chicken and then seasoned it liberally before sliding it into the oven and starting on the vegetables. 

“Wow.”

Startled, Bucky glanced over at Steve. He was watching raptly with his elbows resting on the countertop and his chin propped up by his palms. “The Bucky I knew couldn’t even boil water.”

“Yeah, well, the Bucky you knew was sixteen,” Bucky replied, turning back to the counter and chopping the carrots with more force than was strictly necessary.

“Sorry, I know- not talking about it. Last time, I swear.”

Before either of them had the chance to say something they’d regret, Bucky smacked the knife down loudly as something dawned on him. “Damnit!” he said, picking the knife back up and scowling at the unchopped vegetables that still remained. “I should’ve made Becca eat something before she left. She always forgets.”

“I’m sure she’ll be okay,” Steve said. He was probably trying to be comforting. It wasn’t effective, but Bucky could appreciate the effort. “How’s she doing, anyway?”

Bucky sighed and tried to work past the annoyance at himself. She was fifteen and could manage herself just fine. “She’s good. She really is.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “Much better actually, out here you know, none of the big city stress. It’s been good for her.”

“Good,” Steve said, his eyes bright. “That’s- I’m really happy to hear that.” He did look genuinely happy. And why shouldn’t he? After all, Becca, for all intents and purposes, had been his little sister as well. Steve had been there through the whole nightmare that was Becca’s early childhood, and when she’d gotten sick, it had hurt him just the same as it had the rest of them.

Steve had been there for it all: the sudden weight loss, the extreme thirst, the doctors and the prodding and poking for a diagnosis of type 1 diabetes that seemed to take forever to get. And when Becca, only five years old at the time,had screamed and cried herself hoarse at the daily shots of insulin, Steve had been the only person who could calm her down. Maybe it was because he’d spent so much of his own childhood sick as well, but the two of them had shared a bond that no one else could really understand.

The loud beeping of the oven roused Bucky from his thoughts. Probably for the better; he was treading dangerously close to some memories that he’d rather just forget. The appetizing smell of spices filled the air as he slid the dish out. His stomach, which was only just now untying the knots of anxiety it’d held all afternoon, rumbled. He was hungrier than he had realized. 

Once the chicken had cooled some and the vegetables had come off the stove, Bucky split the food among three plates. He slid two of them onto to the island and wrapped the third in foil before sticking it in the microwave for Becca to eat when she got home. Steve whistled appreciatively as Bucky tossed him a fork. 

“Damn, Buck, you really did learn a thing or two.”

Bucky shrugged one shoulder as he slid onto the stool opposite Steve. “I guess. Nothing like what your mom can do though. How’s she been, by the way?”

“Oh,” Steve said, and at the tone of his voice Bucky froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “She, um- she actually passed away. Awhile ago.”

Bucky stared, food forgotten, disbelief written across his face. “What?” he said.

Steve nodded stiffly. “Cancer. Didn’t catch it until it was- it was quick.” He lowered his head and started to chew methodically, purposefully avoiding any eye contact.

Bucky felt sick, like his stomach had dropped out from under him. “Damn. I’m so sorry, Steve, I had no idea.”

“It’s fine. There was no way for you to have known.”

Mechanically, Bucky resumed eating. Suddenly, the food didn’t taste as good as it had a few seconds ago, and each bite stuck in his throat. Steve wasn’t telling the truth and they both knew it. There _was_ a way he could have known. If they had still talked, if they had never stopped being friends in the first place. Bucky had loved Sarah Rogers. She was his mother too, in the same way that Becca was Steve’s sister. Sarah had treated him like a son; bandaged his scraped knees and disciplined him and helped him with his homework. He felt nauseous.

“When did it happen?” 

He thought back to every unanswered email and letters and texts every missed phone call. Had it been happening then? Did Steve even _think_ for a second of telling Bucky what was going on?

“Four years ago. Right after I started college. I don’t- can we not talk about this right now?”

“Yeah, no, of course,” Bucky rushed to say. The pained look on Steve’s face lessened some and Bucky felt something in his chest come unmoored; like a sail on a boat, loose and wild in the wind. “I’m sorry for bringing it up.”

“It’s fine,” Steve said again. “You didn’t know.”

They both resumed eating, and for a few minutes, the only sounds were the scrape of cutlery against plates and the faint sound of Winter barking at squirrels outside. The sun had made its final descent in the time they’d been busy, and the kitchen was getting darker, the shadows lengthening. At last, when their plates had both been cleaned, Steve asked, “So, I’ve met Winter. You guys got any other animals around here?”

Bucky snorted, secretly glad for the change to a more light-hearted subject. “We did, but it turns out two middle-aged city slickers from Brooklyn- not so good at farm animal upkeep. I think they ended up selling most of the big animals after like, a year.”

Steve laughed too, putting a hand over his eyes. “Tell me that was as funny as I’m imagining it was.”

“Oh yeah.” Bucky nodded gleefully. “Whatever you’re imagining, I promise, it’s even better. Dad’s got a great story about trying to herd cows. You should ask him tomorrow when they get back.”

“Do I even wanna know?”

“Trust me, you do. So yeah, no big animals any more. But there’s Winter, and a few barn cats that hang around, plus a coop full of chickens. They’re mean as shit, though. I’d stay away if like your fingers better un-pecked.”

 

\---

 

The evening passed more quickly than Bucky had anticipated. By the time Steve had had his fill of playing with barncat and her kittens, full dark had set in. Becca had returned around eight o’clock (as promised) and had promptly locked herself in her bedroom, though she’d deigned to open the door and accept the meal Bucky shoved at her. 

“I’m _fine_ ,” she insisted, in perhaps the least convincing display of ‘being fine’ Bucky had ever seen, before closing the door in his face. He wasn’t so far out from his own teenage crisis years that he didn’t recognize fifteen-year-old girl drama when he saw it. Maybe something had happened with Kate. He sighed heavily at her closed door. Another thing he’d have to handle. God, he was glad his parents would be home soon. If nothing else, their extended absence had taught him that he owed his parents an unpayable debt for having to put up with him through his own tumultuous teenage years.

As if she were able to sense his distress all the way across the Atlantic, Bucky’s phone lit up with a phone call from his mother just as he shut his bedroom door, ready to turn in for the night. _Who knows_ , he thought as he accepted the call, _maybe it’s some kind of mom-sense. Heh._

“Hey, Mom,” he said.

“James!” The line was staticky. Wherever they were at, the reception wasn’t great. Regardless, he smiled at hearing his Mom’s voice. His parents had been gone nearly three weeks; their ‘second honeymoon’ as they had called it, had been spent flitting around Europe. “How are you? How’s your sister? Are you both doing okay? And-”

“Everything’s fine, Mom,” he insisted. “Just like it was the last time you called. I promise, I can handle Becca for a few more hours. But I will be glad to hand her off to you when you guys get home.”

Her laughter came down the line, made broken and crackly by the poor signal. “Has she been giving you trouble?”

Bucky shrugged as he sat down on the edge of his bed, tugging off his shoes and socks. “If you call locking herself in her room and blasting awful music trouble, I guess.”

She laughed again. “Give her a few hours on her own. By the morning, she’ll be in a better mood.”

“I’d settle for better music,” he muttered.

“Well, as I recall, your taste in music wasn’t much better at that age.” He made a noncommittal noise as his mother asked, “Steve’s flight got in today, didn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he said, trying and failing to hide the sudden stiffness in his tone.

“That bad, huh?”

He sighed heavily, dropping all pretenses of pretending everything was good. “It was… awkward.”

“It has been six years since the two of you last saw each other,” she pointed out. “It may take a while for things to feel normal again.”

“I know, I know,” he said, flopping back on his bed, one hand pressed over his eyes. “I just… I don’t know. I thought it’d be different. But it’s just…”

“I know, sweetie,” she said quietly. “I know the two of you will work it out. Just give it time.”

“I will.”

“Good.” Her tone brightened somewhat. “And by tomorrow afternoon, we’ll be back home. I’m sure having a few extra faces around might make it easier.”

“Maybe.”

“I should go now. Your father’s just pulling the car around now, but I love you, James, and we’ll be home before you know it.”

“Love you too, Mom. Be careful.”

“We will. Bye, sweetie.”

He tossed the phone to the side where it bounced lightly on the comforter before coming to stop partially beneath one pillow. He left the other hand over his eyes, too lazy to get up and move yet. God, what a day. At least it was over. Only six more until Steve boarded a plane back to Brooklyn and they could forget this little attempt at rekindling their friendship had ever happened. Steve would go back to college and he could go back to existing peacefully without Steve fucking Rogers haunting his doorstep.

There was tentative knock on the door. He knew immediately that it wasn’t Becca; he could still hear her music blasting through her closed door and into the hallway. _Speak of the devil and he will appear._ “Come in,” he called out wearily, sitting up and shaking any remaining thoughts about Steve out of his head. 

“Hey.” Steve lingered in the doorframe, tatty, gray sweatpants riding low on his hips and faded blue t-shirt worn soft with use. 

“What’s up? You need something?” Bucky started to get off the bed but Steve held out a hand to stop him. 

“Don’t get up. I don’t need anything. I just wanted to say,” he cast his eyes around, as if looking for the right words, “thank you, I guess.”

“You guess?” Bucky raised an eyebrow and immediately felt like a dick. “It’s all good,” he amended quickly. “It’s nice to have you here.” It wasn’t strictly the truth, but a little white lie never hurt anyone. 

“It, um, it really means a lot that you invited me down here,” Steve said, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards in an almost-smile. “Thank you, again.”

“You’re welcome.” The words came out surprisingly sincere, catching Bucky off guard a little. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Steve took the out graciously and nodded. “See you in the morning, Buck.”


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky woke up covered in sweat. The house was hot and sticky, the air stifling. Sometime during the night he’d kicked off the covers, and they were now tangled around his feet. He made a face at the fan. He didn’t remember turning it off, but it definitely wasn’t moving. He got to his feet with a groan and yanked at the chain, but the fan didn’t come on. 

“Piece of shit,” he cursed under his breath as he pulled again. Still nothing. _Great._ The fucking power was out, it seemed. _Perfect._ Annoyed, he yanked his sweat-soaked t-shirt over his head and used it to wipe at the back of his neck before tossing it in the direction of the hamper. Of course the power would go out on what felt like the hottest night of the fucking year. 

The sun wasn’t up yet, which was probably the only thing working in his favor right now. He shuddered to think what the temperature might be otherwise. He didn’t bother flipping on the lights, instead using a combination of memory and the faint light of the moon that leaked in through the windows to guide his way through the dark house. 

The basement was blissfully cool compared to the main part of the house, and with the door at the top of the stairs cracked open, just enough light peaked in to illuminate the breaker box at the bottom. He stomped down the stairs, pried the door open, and flipped the breakers.

Nothing.

“Fucking great,” he muttered, trying the switches again in vain. “Fuck!” He slammed his fist against the wall, and then immediately regretted the decision as the rough concrete scraped his knuckles raw. “Goddamnit!” His own fault, for sure, but that did nothing to curb his annoyance. 

Shaking out his hand, he made his way back up the stairs and into his bedroom. There had to be a power line down somewhere, so he’d have to call the power company and get them out here to take a look. With the closest neighbors miles away, it was unlikely anyone would notice anytime soon. He dug out his phone from where it had lain all night under the pillow. The screen was dark and when he tried to power it on, nothing happened.

 _Really?_ he thought, tipping his head up toward the ceiling and closing his eyes as he took a deep, calming breath. _What the fuck did I ever do to you, universe. Perfect. Fucking perfect._ Slinging his phone onto the dresser, he felt his annoyance start to morph into anger. What a fucking day to forget to charge his phone. God, was this all just a preview of how this whole visit was going to go? The first full day Steve was going to be here, and already it was like the universe was trying to tell him something. Probably to fuck off, if the current situation was any indication.

Taking a deep breath, he rubbed at the corners of his eyes so hard he saw bursts of colored light behind his eyelids. _It’s just some bad luck,_ he told himself. _Any more dramatics and I’ll start giving Becca a run for her money._ His knuckles throbbed where he’d scratched them against the rough concrete wall of the basement, and it was enough to distract him for a little while.

It was fine. Bad luck, for sure, but he was a goddamn adult, and it was nothing he couldn’t handle. He’d wait until Becca woke up and use her phone to call the power company, and hopefully they’d be able to come out quickly- before the house got any more miserable. In the meantime though, he had things to do and there was no sense wasting time in his room feeling sorry for himself when he could be doing something useful.

The sun was just starting to peek out over the horizon, painting the sky with beautiful whorls of red and orange. The day promised to be brutally hot, and the humidity made being outside feel like being draped in a wet, warm blanket. The air stuck in his throat and on his skin, amplifying his growing disgust with the day.

Doing his best to ignore all of it, Bucky fed Winter and the barn cats. He even took a few minutes to play with the little orange one that reminded him strangely of his friend Natasha with its brilliant green eyes and tiny, wicked claws. He was in the middle of cleaning out the chicken coop when Steve found him. 

“Morning, Buck.”

Bucky jerked in surprise at the unexpected voice and then yelped as he hit his head on the sturdy wooden frame. “Shit,” he said, stripping off his work gloves and rubbing at the sore spot. His hair, twisted up into a bun to keep it out of his face, only slightly cushioned the blow. “The fuck, Rogers. Don’t you know better than to sneak up on a man when he’s doing manual labor?” The chickens squawked as if in agreement. 

“Sorry,” Steve said. His cheeks had the slightest tinge of flush. 

Bucky felt a sudden, familiar feeling stir deep in his chest before he viciously stomped it back down. “Chill, Steve, I’m only joking.”

“Oh.”

And didn’t that hurt. When they were younger, Steve most certainly would have made some sort of snide remark or told Bucky to go fuck himself. Now it seemed he could barely stand to look Bucky in the face out of embarrassment. 

Bucky took a last glance around, assured that everything was done, before closing the door on the coop tightly. “How’d you sleep?” he asked, as he headed for the nearby water hose that was hanging coiled on the side of the shed.

“Fine. It’s quiet out here.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, cranking the ancient spigot. It squealed in protest, but eventually gave way and water splashed around his feet. He picked up the hose and washed off his hands before holding it above his head, soaking himself in the blessedly cool water. “You get used to it.” He shook the excess water out of his face, pushing a few sopping wet stray strands of hair out of his eyes with one hand. “Gets a lot darker too. Took me a month before I could sleep right when we first moved here. Steve?”

Steve was staring at him strangely, something unfamiliar in his eyes for just a second, before he shook himself out of it. “Sorry, sorry. Just, uh- nothing.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. Steve didn’t say anything else though, and Bucky wasn’t a damn mind reader. If Steve felt like keeping secrets, that was fine. Wasn’t anything Bucky wasn’t already used to anyway, and besides, he had plenty of his own.

“Got anything you want to do today?”

Steve shrugged a shoulder. “Not really. I figured I’d just tag along with you, if that’s all right. Whatever you normally do.”

“I hate to break it to you,” Bucky said, twisting off the water. “But this _is_ what I normally do.”

“I didn’t mean-“

But whatever Steve meant or didn’t mean to say, Bucky never got to find out, because at that moment there was a loud scream from the house.

“Was that Becca?” Steve asked, but Bucky had already taken off running. He covered the distance to the back porch quicker than he knew he was capable of, skidding to a stop just as the back door flew open, banging off the wall of the house and revealing Becca- whole, alive, and apparently unhurt. 

“Bucky!” she shrieked as soon as she saw him, and he closed the gap between them in two great strides. 

“What is it? What’s going on?” he asked frantically. He grabbed her by the shoulders, holding her still and looking her over for some sign of injury that he might have missed. 

“My phone’s dead!” she cried, and he froze, sure that he’d heard wrong. 

“What?” he asked slowly.

“It’s dead!” she said, shoving her phone at him. He took it, not even bothering to look and instead stared at her in disbelief. 

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me?” he asked. Steve, who’d taken longer to get there, skidded to a halt beside him. “You can’t fucking _do that_ , Becca. You scared the crap out of me! I thought something had happened.” He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose hard between two fingers. 

“Something _did_ happen,” she insisted, pointing at the phone still held tight in his hand. “It’s _dead_.”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time, Becs,” he snapped. He didn’t even feel bad for being short with her. She could be a bit much sometimes, and usually he chalked it up to her age- Lord knows, he had been the same, if not worse. But this was going a bit beyond that. “It’s a phone. You didn’t need to scream like someone was trying to murder you.” Much to his chagrin, he could see Steve struggling not to smile beside him. “Don’t you fucking laugh,” he said. “She doesn’t need anymore goddamn encouragement.”

“Sorry,” Steve said, schooling his face back into a more neutral expression. 

Bucky pursed his lips in annoyance and finally took a look at the phone. She was right- it was definitely dead. No amount of poking and prodding would convince the thing to turn on; no matter what he did the screen remained black. 

“Did you forget to charge it?”

“No! I plugged it in before I went to bed.”

Bucky sighed heavily and handed the phone back to her. “Power’s out. It probably ran out of battery in the middle of the night.”

She looked like she wanted to say something sarcastic, but a sharp look from Bucky had her clamming up. Regardless, she looked miserable in a way Bucky couldn’t quite understand. He hadn’t grown up with his phone attached to his hand like Becca had though. He huffed out a breath. Just his luck this would all happen on his watch. “Steve, can I use your phone to call the power company. Hopefully they can get it restored before we all boil alive.”

“Sure. No problem. It’s just back in the house.

When they got to the guest room, Bucky leaned heavily against the doorframe as Steve grabbed his phone off the bedside table. The day had barely begun and he was already exhausted. _Just a few more hours,_ he told himself. _Just a few more hours and I can quit this parenting shit._ Then all he’d have to worry about was Steve, which was an unpleasant thought in its own special way. 

“Huh.” Across the room, Steve had his phone in his hand and was staring down at it with a furrowed brow. Something deep in Bucky’s gut squirmed with unease. “Mine’s not working either.”

“You sure?” Bucky asked, crossing the room quickly to peer over Steve’s shoulder. There was enough light now peeking through the drawn-back curtains to illuminate the black screen clearly. Bucky could see his reflection, small and dark, and the feeling of unease grew. It latched onto something deep in his chest and reached little tendrils around his ribcage. 

“Yeah. That’s weird. It was working fine last night.” Steve bent over to dig in his bag and the movement made the hem of his shirt rise, revealing a few inches of the smooth, tanned skin of his back. “Here,” Steve declared, triumphant, as he straightened up. In his hands was a sleek, silver laptop. “Maybe there was some kind of accident or something that knocked out the power. I’ll see if there’s anything online about it.”

Bucky still couldn’t take his eyes off the dead phone. “No power means no internet, Steve.”

“Shit.” Steve paused in the middle of flipping open his computer. He pushed a button, waited, and then did it again. “I don’t think it matters anyway.” Bucky whipped his head around to stare at Steve, who was now pressing down a combination of buttons on the edge of the screen. “It’s dead too.”

“Are you sure?” It was a stupid question, but Bucky couldn’t help asking anyway. 

“I’m sure.” Steve sat down on the edge of the bed, computer balanced on his lap, his lips in an aggravated grimace. 

“Fuck.” Bucky dropped heavily onto the bed next to him, fixated on the dark screen. They were close enough that their elbows brushed and he could feel Steve’s body warmth even in the muggy heat of the house. God, he never knew he could miss an air conditioner this much. As he watched, a bead of sweat rolled slowly from Steve’s temple down the long, lean muscles of his neck, disappearing beneath the damp cotton neck of his t-shirt. 

Well, maybe he didn’t miss it _that_ much. 

“This is weird, right?” Steve turned earnest blue eyes on him, and for a second Bucky forgot to breathe. Sitting this close had been a mistake. As subtly as he could he scooted back across the length of the bed.

He’d first had the thought this morning and had dreaded it ever since, but it seemed he didn’t have a choice. “I’m gonna go drive into town. See if anyone else is having trouble,” he said. The thing in his chest wrapped tighter.

“Okay.” Steve was nodding, pushing his computer back into his bag. “I’ll come with you.”

“No.” On instinct, Bucky reached out and grabbed Steve’s wrist. His skin burned where they touched and Steve stared down at their hands, lips forming the beginning of a word but no sound came out. “You need to stay with Becca.” Steve wrenched his eyes away to give him a confused look. 

“Do you think-“

“I’m sure it’s all fine.” Bucky headed him off before he could finish. It was selfish, but he couldn’t bear Steve’s worry on top of his own. “Just, you know, in case. I’d prefer it if you were with her.”

For a moment, Steve just looked at him, jaw tight, and then nodded wordlessly. Bucky breathed a sigh of relief that he didn’t have to explain himself- he wasn’t even sure he _could_. But he was sure he’d feel better once he got some answers about what was going on. For the first time since Steve had arrived yesterday in Clint’s cab, Bucky was relieved that he was here. 

Becca’s door was closed tight when Bucky passed it and for a second he worried about her overheating in there before he forced himself to stop. She wasn’t a little kid anymore, and if she wanted to sweat to death in her room, he’d have to let her learn her own lesson. He rapped on the door with his uninjured hand, three sharp little taps that echoed in the eerily silent house. 

“I’m going into town, Becca. Gonna see if I can figure out why the power’s out.”

No answer.

He sighed and leaned against the door, head tipped back against the solid wood and arms crossed over his chest. “I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier. You just scared me, is all.” There was a small shuffling noise and then the room fell silent once again. “Okay, I can take a hint,” he said, pushing himself off the doorframe. “Steve’s here if you need anything.” He hesitated, and then, “Love you, Becs.” 

He didn’t stay to wait for an answer. It wasn’t often that he told her he loved her, and the realization of that hit him hard in the gut. Sure, she could be a royal pain in his ass, but she was still his baby sister. He could do with reminding himself of that sometimes.

His car was an old Nissan Sentra. The paint was gone in some places, revealing the metal underneath, two of the windows didn’t work, and the radio was questionable at best. It was too cold in the winter and too warm in the summer, but it was _his_. He’d bought it with his own money off a friend of Natasha’s, and it had served him well ever since.

He unlocked the door with a key- the automatic locks had never worked- and swung himself into the driver’s seat. Sticking the key firmly in the ignition, he turned it and….nothing. He tried again, twisting the key as hard as he dared before it felt like it might snap. There was nothing, no sputtering of the engine as it tried to turn over. He checked desperately to see if he’d left the lights on or for anything else that might explain why the car had died overnight. And again, there wasn’t a single thing to quell the anxiety curling in his chest. 

Dull pain shot through his hand as he slammed it against the steering wheel. His knuckles, still scraped raw from that morning, ached and provided him with a momentary distraction that he welcomed with open arms. Anything to stop his mind from racing down its current path. Something was happening here; something bad and he couldn’t have said how he knew that, only that somewhere deep inside of him alarm bells were screaming. He hit the steering wheel again- another burst of pain- and then got out of the car, slamming the door behind him in frustration. 

Buried deep in the shed was an old bike that he hadn’t used since he’d gotten his own car. By some miracle it was still in working condition, nothing bent or broken. Steve came out the back door just as Bucky was checking the front tire for any leaking air. This time Bucky, whose nerves were frayed to the breaking point already, noticed the creak of the door and the heavy tread long before Steve came up behind him.

“You know, you are really bad about sneaking up on people,” he said, without turning around.

“Kind of hard to sneak when you’re six feet tall.”

“And yet somehow you manage just fine,” Bucky muttered, loudly enough for Steve to hear. The front tire checked out fine and he quickly moved on to the back.

“What are you doing?” Steve asked, thankfully ignoring his comment. 

“Car’s not working.”

“What?” Now Steve stepped up beside him; Bucky could see the frown tugging at the corners of his mouth in his peripheral vision.

“Exactly what I just said. The car isn’t working,” Bucky snapped, and no, he shouldn’t be getting snippy, but he couldn’t help it. All of his fear was coming out as anger. It always had, ever since he was young. He took a deep, calming breath, hands shaking where they clasped the bike frame tight. “I couldn’t get it to start. Nothing, not even a stutter, so I’m taking the bike.” Another deep breath and he turned, catching Steve’s concerned gaze. “Something’s going on Steve.”

What he wanted in that moment, more than he had ever wanted anything, was for Steve to tell him that he was wrong. That he was overreacting, blowing the whole thing out of proportion, because then he didn’t have to be so scared. He would feel foolish and maybe a little bit embarrassed when the power came back on and everything started to work again, but he could live with that. Would love that, actually. 

But Steve didn’t tell him he was wrong. All Steve did was close his eyes, long eyelashes sweeping over golden skin. When they opened again he looked determined, and it was so familiar. For a second Bucky was sixteen again, terrified, and facing down his first kiss.

Bucky shook his head, hair falling into his eyes, as if he could physically shake away the memory. Why think of that now, when he hadn’t in so long. He could only blame the cascade of emotions rolling through him like a slow, steady, ever-encroaching tide. 

“I’ll take a look. I don’t know much about cars, but maybe I can do something.”

Bucky nodded, digging into his back pocket for the keys before tossing them over. “Thanks,” he said. “And please- Becca? Don’t tell her anything. Make something up if you have to. I don’t want her to worry.” 

Steve nodded and Bucky swung a leg over the bike, getting ready to take off. A sudden breeze provided a momentary burst of hot air that even this early signaled a day of hellish heat. But something far more ominous than the heat came on the wind as well. 

Smoke. 

He could see the instant that Steve smelled it, face tipping up automatically to search for the source, eyes narrowing in concentration.

“Is that-“ he started to ask, but Bucky was already busy scanning the horizon.

“There,” he said, pointing at the dark plum, just visible over the tree line. 

“What’s out that way?”

Racking his brain, he answered, “Nothing. A few houses. Like ours, lots of land…” He trailed off. Another sign, another block added onto the shaky tower of his sanity, threatening to knock the entire thing down. “I’m going,” he declared, and wasted no time in pushing the bike off. He jammed his foot on the brake at the last second, pausing before saying, “Be careful, Steve.”

“You too, Buck.”


	3. Chapter 3

It was miles to town, and Bucky felt every last one of them, thigh muscles screaming as his calves burned with exhaustion. Sweat soaked his shirt and ran in rivulets down his forehead. He wished he’d had the forethought to grab a hair tie. By the time he reached the first of the neat little houses that marked the edge of town, he was cursing the fact that he’d allowed himself to get so out of shape.

As he biked down the sunny streets he looked around warily. Everything looked normal, lawns immaculately trimmed, identical shiny SUVs parked in every driveway- suburban sprawl at its finest- beautiful and idyllic. But there was something- something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. The smells of grass and hot asphalt greeted him like old friends and his ears picked up bird song. It was like a damn postcard, quiet and peaceful and-

That was it.

 _Quiet._

There was nothing. No car engines, no air conditioners humming, no lawn mowers, no music out of open windows. Nothing. He strained his ears, trying to control his harsh breathing, and listened for something, _anything._ The neighborhood that only moments before had seemed like something out of a movie now felt strangely sinister. His breath came harder and faster as he pedaled like the devil was chasing him. And for all he knew, it was. Nothing he could fathom could explain this. 

Veering sharply to the left through an intersection, he came across the first concrete sign of something awry. There were two cars stopped in the middle of the road, one halfway through the intersection, as if it had stalled out mid-crossing. Overhead, the traffic light was dark. He slowed as he rode by a dark red sedan, peering into it. There were no keys in the ignition and the doors were unlocked, windows halfway down. His head felt light and dizzy. No one would leave their car like this by choice.

As he swung his bike around to check out the other car, movement halfway down the street caught his eye. It was a man, waving at him from the driveway of one of the houses. He was next to his car, and every movement of his body radiated frustration.

“Hey!” the man called out as Bucky biked closer. He came to a stop beside him as the man eyed him warily. He was in a business suit, jacket off and draped over his forearm in deference to the heat, damp patches at the neck and under the arms of his blue dress shirt beneath. His shoes were dark, supple-looking leather, and the material and cut of his suit screamed money, although even the superb tailoring couldn’t hide the extra weight around his middle.

“Do you know what’s going on here?” the man asked, annoyance in his tone. 

“No.” Bucky’s heart sank. “I was hoping to ask you the same thing.”

The man huffed angrily. “All I know is that I’m going to be late to work thanks to this piece of junk!” He slammed a large hand onto the hood of his car, the dull clang of metal reverberating around them.

“What happened to it?”

“The damn thing just up and died on me. I had a new battery put in last month!” He glanced angrily at his gleaming wristwatch. “I need to call work. Do you have a phone?” He was practically shouting by this point, face red from exertion. Instinctively, Bucky recoiled. 

“No,” he answered. “It’s not working, I just need-“

The man huffed angrily, like all of this was somehow Bucky’s fault. “Well, if you’re not going to help I don’t have time to talk to you.” He turned decisively away, muttering under his breath. Bucky shot him a middle finger behind his back.

 _Asshole_ , he thought, along with other less pleasant things. Recognizing a brush-off when he saw one, Bucky resumed pedaling, leaving the rude man quickly behind. Mood even more sour than it had been before, he flew through the streets, all the while keeping an eye out for anything that might help him understand what was going on. But all he saw was more of the same; cars in the middle of the road, abandoned where they’d stopped, dark traffic lights, and that same disturbing lack of noise.

As he left the sleepy neighborhoods, he began to see more and more people. Most were like the man he had just talked to, fighting with cars that were now useless. More than a few were in business clothes, men with pressed pants and ties and women in towering high heels, clearly trying to begin their morning commutes. He didn’t stop any of them. They all looked just as lost and confused as he was. 

He began to notice a flow to their movements, like a current in a river, as everyone headed in more or less the same direction toward the center of town. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea. He certainly hadn’t found the answers he was looking for out here; he could only hope he’d fare better somewhere else. 

“Hey!”

There was a flash of movement in his peripheral vision and he jerked away reflexively. The handlebars twisted in his hands and he felt the bike overbalance. His loose grip combined with his speed was enough to send him flying through the air, and he had just enough time to think _‘fuck, this is going to hurt’_ before he hit the ground. The rough concrete broke his fall, jarring his breath from his lungs, and he skidded another few feet before coming to a stop, bruised and bloody. For a moment, he lay there, cloudless blue sky above swimming in front of his eyes as he tried to catch his breath.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

A face materialized above him, blocking out the sun. Bucky squinted up at them, head throbbing where it had bounced off the concrete. He hurt all over and it wasn’t even noon yet. He groaned loudly as the person knelt beside him. It was a woman; young and very pretty, her brown hair curled softly around her face and her eyes were blue, but the shade wasn’t quite right. Not anything like Steve’s and-

Where had that thought come from? He must have hit his head harder than he thought to have something like that popping into his brain. Vaguely, he realized that the woman was still talking. 

“I’m so sorry,” she said. One perfectly manicured head was wavering in the air between, like she wasn’t sure if she should help him up or back away. “I was just trying to get your attention. I didn’t think you’d go flying off your bike like that.”

Now she held out a hand, and he had enough sense left to grab it tightly and pull himself up into a sitting position. The movement awakened a whole new set of aches and he winced. It was only when he heard her sharp intake of breath that he realized he was still gripping the woman’s hand tightly 

“Sorry,” he said as he pulled away. “I’m fine.” Getting his feet underneath him was slightly harder than anticipated; thankfully, he only wobbled a little bit on the way up. 

“I’m really sorry,” she said again, and reached out to brush little bits of gravel off his shirt. “Oh! You’re bleeding!”

“Huh?” But she was right. As he watched, bright red blood trailed down his left arm, collecting at the bend of his wrist and dripping steadily onto the pavement below. The source was a deep, jagged cut that started just below his elbow and extended nearly half the length of his forearm He hadn’t even felt it. He could see the the torn edges of skin, the little bits of gravel and road debris embedded in the cut, but it may as well have been a stranger’s arm. _Must be the adrenaline._ More of his blood dripped down to stain the street and he fought the urge to vomit.

“Oh God, that looks terrible.” The woman was now frantically searching through her purse. “I know I have something in here, I know I do. Ah-ha!” Triumphantly, she pulled out a scarf, one of those silky ones for show rather than warmth. “Come here, give me your arm,” she commanded, and numbly, Bucky followed the order. 

Before he had could even process what was happening- _God, had he hit his head that hard?_ \- she had wrapped the scarf around his arm, tying it tight. Spots of red showed through the cloth almost immediately and he frowned, knowing that when the shock faded and he could feel his arm again he was in for a hell of a rough time. 

“That’s the best I can do right now. Hopefully it’ll at least slow the bleeding down,” she said, worriedly smoothing the edges of the fabric against his skin. Decisively, he tucked his arm up against his side out of her reach, not caring if it seemed rude. He figured he was entitled to a little rudeness after the morning he’d had. 

“Thanks,” he said gruffly as he hauled his bike back up off the ground. The frame was considerably more scratched than before, but he breathed a sigh of relief to see that it wasn’t dented beyond repair. 

She hung her head, looking ashamed. “It was my fault in the first place. I shouldn’t have stepped out in front of you like that. I just thought you looked like you knew where you were going. I thought you might be able to tell me what’s happened with all the cars.”

Sighing, he shook his head as he mounted the bike, still more wobbly than he would like. “I wish I could, but I’m trying to figure that out myself.”

She looked, if possible, even more miserable. “Damn,” she said. “Could you at least point me in the direction of the police station? I was just driving through, I don’t even know this town. Maybe they can call my brother to come get me.”

“Maybe they can,” he said. He didn’t want to be the one to break the news to this woman, not when she already looked on the verge of tears. “Look, do you need help getting there? Maybe a ride? We can figure out something-“

“No, no, that’s okay.” She shook her head, brown curls flying. “I’ve caused enough trouble. I’ll be fine.”

And suddenly, as much as everything in him was screaming to get going, get back to Becca and Steve, he found himself saying, “Really, it wouldn’t be any trouble for me to walk you there.”

“No,” she said more firmly. Her mouth was a tight line and her shoulders were set determinedly. “I can get there on my own. Seriously, go on. After all that, the least I can do is not hold you up anymore.”

He hesitated, still uncomfortable with the idea of leaving her here by herself. It hadn’t been entirely her fault, after all, and he couldn’t stomach the thought of ignoring someone in need. 

“Hey.” Her voice cut gently through his jumbled thoughts and he looked at her. “I’ll be okay. And once I get hold of a phone I’ll call my brother and it’ll all be fine. Now go. You were riding like you had somewhere to be earlier.”

He did have somewhere to be. Becca and Steve. They had to be his priority now, even though the guilt pooling in his stomach felt as thick and black as tar. “Okay,” he said quickly, before he could talk himself out of it again. “Are you sure-” He snapped his mouth shut as she leveled him with a hard look. “I hope you can call your brother soon,” he said instead. “Be safe, okay?”

She smiled at him. “You too. Take care of that arm, when you get a chance.”

He nodded and started pedaling away, leaving the street much more slowly than he had entered it. He was almost two blocks away before he realized he’d never even gotten her name.

 

\---

 

Another ten minutes and he was on Main Street. It too was like something out of an old tv show; small and quaint, the shop-fronts painted in cheery greens and blues. In places the street was still original cobblestone, worn smooth and seamless over the years. At the end of the road stood the police station, a squat little building made of red brick with heavy wooden doors and thick, wavy glass windows. In a different time it could’ve been a general store or an old trading post. On a normal day, only the police cruisers parked out front gave it away.

But today was not a normal day, and the scene that greeted him drove the point home hard. Up until then it had been upsetting but manageable. Small. Just him, the asshole from earlier, a few people walking down the street, and the woman with the scarf. But now…

The crowd gathered in front of the police station was huge and loud, people clamoring to be heard over one another. Two men were screaming at each other- about what, Bucky couldn’t tell- and as he watched, they started to push and shove at each other Two more men jumped to pull them apart before any real damaged could be done. Some of the people looked angry, some annoyed, but mostly they seemed lost and confused. Bucky biked in as close as he dared, not wanting to get caught anywhere near the crowd. He’d had enough injuries for the day and wasn’t eager to add another in case some idiot thought he was in their way and decided to solve it with their fists. His head hurt, a combination of stress and the fall, and the chaos around him was only making it worse. 

Way up in the front he saw officers, blue uniforms and bright badges standing out like a beacon in the frenzied crowd. One officer, an older man with a salt-and-pepper beard, tried to speak into a megaphone, but there was no sound, or at least none that Bucky could hear over the noise of the people around him. The man whacked the megaphone a couple of times with the palm of his hand and then tossed it over to another officer with a resigned look on his face. Then, with a surprising agility given his age, the officer clambered on top of the nearest cruiser, and stood on the top of the car facing the crowd. 

An earsplitting whistle burst through the air, its source a younger officer with dark hair cropped close to his head. The man on top of the police car nodded his appreciation and then cupped his hands around his mouth and began speaking, projecting loudly enough that even Bucky from his position in the back of the crowd could hear him. 

“I need everyone to remain calm,” he yelled. The crush of people quieted slightly and the officer was able to lower his voice a bit. “I know you all have questions, but right now we know as much as you do, and fighting in the front of the station isn’t going to help anything.” One of the two men who had been fighting looked suitably ashamed; the other was still quietly fuming. “Now, we need anyone who lives here in town to please go back to your homes and wait while the city figures out the problem with the power. Be assured that we are doing everything we can to correct the situation as quickly as possible. If you’re not from around here or don’t have anywhere to go, the church right down the road is setting up a place for you to stay with food and water. It’s our hope that we’ll get you out of here and back on the road in a couple of hours. That’s all.”

Taking a hand from one of the younger officers, the man jumped lightly back down to the ground. There was a second of silence, and then the crowd burst into more noise than even before. People were shouting questions, each vying to be heard over the voice of the person next to him. Tempers were flaring again quickly; there’d be more fights before long. 

Bucky took one last look at the police station and the officers gathered in front of it before turning around and heading back the way he’d came. He wouldn’t find any answers here.

 

\---

 

Five minutes from the police station there was a cluster of apartment buildings, all of them older but in good repair. The lawns were a rich, dark green with flower beds lining the walkways, and the dusky gray brick buildings were well-kept. Clint and his girlfriend, Natasha, had lived there for the last year or so, after the lease on their last apartment ( Natasha had lovingly nicknamed it ‘the hellhole’) had come up. This new place was much nicer, and Bucky was happy to see that it looked the same as it always had. Maybe the craziness hadn’t yet reached them. Taking the stairs three at a time, he prayed that it hadn’t. 

Like everywhere else in town, the little light above their door was off, and even in the early sunlight, the little hallway was dim. The smells of fresh paint and sawdust permeated the air as he knocked, three sharp taps on the dark green door. If he strained, he could just barely hear someone moving around inside. The wooden door creaked, like someone was leaning on the other side of it, and then it opened just a sliver. Bucky suddenly found himself facing down the business end of a very real pistol.


	4. Chapter 4

“Shit!” On instinct, Bucky took a giant step back, almost tripping over the welcome mat. He had only barely regained his balance when Clint’s face appeared at the crack in the door. 

“It’s just you?” he asked. Bucky was very aware of the fact that Clint still hadn’t lowered the gun, although it was no longer directly pointing at him. 

“Just me,” Bucky confirmed, hands up in a placating gesture. “Maybe you could just-“

Whatever Clint could just go do got lost in the shuffle as one of Clint’s arms snaked out of the doorway and grabbed Bucky by the sleeve, hauling him into the darkened apartment. 

“What the hell dude? What’s with the gun?”

Clint, who had already locked the door and was now pulling the chain into its slot, said, “Protection.”

“Protection? Protection from who?”

He didn’t answer. Just the sight of Clint’s serious face was enough to send a chill down Bucky’s spine. It crept through his veins and settled deep into his bones and he shivered. _Come on, shake it off, concentrate,_ he told himself viciously. Movement in the living room caught his eye and he stepped away from the door, cursing the fact that Natasha and Clint had chosen a west-facing apartment. Only ambient light shone in through the closed curtains, and the lit candles scattered around did little to ease the dimness. 

Clint had moved on from the door and was now checking the windows, drawing each curtain back just enough to see out, gun hanging loosely in his grip. Natasha was on the floor in the living room, packing what looked like camping equipment into two large backpacks. He spotted matches, first aid supplies, iodine tablets, and paracord before he looked up and locked eyes with her. 

Natasha’s expression mirrored Clint’s, her brilliant green eyes grim and determined. Her shoulder-length red hair was caught up in a messy ponytail, with escaped tendrils framing her delicate features. But Bucky knew better- nothing about her was delicate. Natasha preferred it that way though; she liked to keep people guessing. For as long as he’d known her she’d always been the most capable person in the room, the most prepared. He wondered if that’s what had driven him here in the first place.

“What happened to your arm?” she asked him, eyes flicking down to the ineffective scarf bandage. It was practically soaked through with blood.

“Bike accident,” he said, not wanting to dwell on the little flare of guilt he felt at the thought of the woman still out there on the road. “Nat, Clint, what the hell is going on? I woke up this morning and nothing’s working. Our power was out, my phone is dead, the car wouldn’t start, there’s cars broken down all over the damn place, and no one knows what the hell is happening!” He paused, his voice echoing loud and desperate in the quiet apartment. 

Natasha’s eyes flicked over to Clint, who nodded, the kind of silent agreement that only people who have known each other a very long time could make. Unfolding her long legs, she stood and jerked her head towards the couch, an unspoken command for Bucky to sit. Like his legs had a mind of their own they obeyed, and the rest of him had no choice but to follow. Clint had finished with the windows and had now taken up Natasha’s post, continuing to pack things into the bags. 

Bucky sat on the edge of the couch, posture stiff and hands clenched tight in his lap, unable to relax even here in a familiar space. Whether it was conscious or not he didn’t know, but she mirrored him as she sat. 

“Have you ever heard of an EMP?”

He hadn’t and he wasn’t in the mood for guessing games. “No. What the fuck is that?”

Her mouth twisted to the side like she’d tasted something sour. Finally, after a long moment, she said, “You know how my dad used to be into all that crazy doomsday stuff?” He nodded. Her father had died long before he had met her, but even so he’d heard stories. She smiled, a bitter thing that marred her pretty features and made his breath catch in his throat. “Guess he wasn’t so crazy after all.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, already dreading the answer. 

“You know my dad was _obsessed_ with the end of the world. Anything that could cause disaster on a widespread scale: biological weapons, nuclear bombs, pandemics. I learned about H-bombs before I learned how to write my own name.” He nodded again, the words _end of the world_ ringing in his ears. 

“One of the things he taught me about was an e-bomb. An electromagnetic pulse weapon. Do you know how radios work?”

The non sequitur took him by surprise and he blinked rapidly, trying to process the question over the rush of white noise that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his brain. It was like trying to hear the sound of a pin drop while standing under a waterfall. He forced his mouth to move. “No, why?”

“Okay, so,” she started, and now she seemed more sure of herself, the certainty of her knowledge doing something to calm them both. “Basically a radio works by changing the electrical current in its circuit. That generates a magnetic field that can then go and induce an electrical current in something else, like a receiver. Now, for something like a radio, that electric current is really small, just enough to send its signal to the receiver.” 

The rushing in his ears was getting louder, a tide of panic held behind a dam that was threatening to split apart at the seams. “That’s great,” he interrupted, not caring how rude he was being. “Thanks for the physics lesson, Nat. Now could you _please_ just get to the point of _what the hell is happening here?_ ”

Apparently unimpressed with his outburst, she continued as if he hadn’t said anything. The force of her glare made him quiet down. On the floor, Clint, having been on the receiving end of more than one of Natasha’s glares, snorted as he loaded protein bars into a side pocket. 

“Like I said,” she continued, “the electrical current that a radio makes is really small so it only induces a small magnetic field. But say you increased the intensity of that signal by a hundred or a thousand. A big enough current would fry the radio and anything else that it reached. And I mean _fry_ it. It would burn out batteries, melt wires, even make transformers explode. Anything with electrical components, trashed, just like that.” She snapped her fingers for emphasis. 

“And that’s what you think happened here?”

“Look around.” She gestured to the dark apartment. “No lights, no TV, no phones, nothing that runs on any kind of power. All the cars? Any model made after the seventies has a computer chip in it.”

He couldn’t feel his toes. Was that normal? He was pretty sure it wasn’t normal. His body was numb, slow and sluggish, while his mind raced ahead. “So nothing’s working? Anywhere?” 

“Nowhere within the blast radius.”

“But how do we know how big it was?”

Here she paused, deep in thought. A small furrow appeared between her eyebrows. “Big,” she finally concluded. “It had to have been big. It’s been hours since it happened. People are starting to panic. So why hasn’t anyone come?”

“I don’t-“

“They _can’t_ , Bucky. Think about it. Cars, planes, even trains have electric generators now. It all would have stopped working the instant the bomb went off. We’re lucky it was in the middle of the night. Imagine what would happen during rush hour in a big city; thousands of cars stop functioning all at once, some of them going close to ninety miles an hour. The crashes alone…”

“But other countries could-“

“America’s a little thin on allies at the moment, in case you haven’t noticed.”

He was vaguely aware of his breath coming in short, shallow bursts. His chest was in a vice grip, rib cage slowly cracking under the pressure. “Where the hell did it even come from?”

Clint’s voice took him by surprise, all of Bucky’s attention had been zoomed in on Natasha and the horrible scenario she was laying out. “It could have come from the fucking moon for all we know. It doesn’t matter where it came from. What matters is that it came and it worked and now we have to deal with the consequences.”

“How long will it take to fix?”

His attention was fraying, eyes darting back and forth, focusing on nothing. There was something… something important. He couldn’t reach it, couldn’t put his finger on it, but it was _there._ God, what was it?

Hands were on his shoulders, warm and firm; green eyes staring at himl. “You don’t get it Bucky. _Nothing_ works. We’re in the fucking dark ages again. No running water, no refrigeration, no way of communicating. And we’re not equipped for it. How many people do you think are gonna be able to feed themselves without a grocery store?”

When it hit him, it was like an explosion going off, fireworks igniting behind his eyes. _Planes._ Everything was numb. Shock, he was in shock. Somewhere the part of his brain that was still firing noted it, like it was informing him of a goddamn papercut.

“My parents are coming back today,” he whispered. His voice didn’t sound like his own. Heart pumping, lungs inhaling and exhaling, providing oxygen to a body that refused to function. “They have a layover in Atlanta.”

Natasha shook her head. “Then they’re stuck there. At least for a while.”

“No.” He tasted bile at the back of his throat. “The layover was early this morning. They would have been flying all night. When did it happen?”

Natasha started to answer. “I don’t-“

“Figure it out!” Desperation, sudden and overwhelming, crashed through him. He was definitely shouting now but he didn’t care, he had to know.

Clint pointed at a clock on the wall, the hands frozen, marking the exact moment that the world as they knew it had stopped. Three fifty-six in the morning. His parents would have been over American airspace, probably sleeping off the impending jetlag, blissfully unaware of what was about to happen. 

“Oh god.” His hands flew to his mouth as he hunched over, head swimming. “Oh my god, this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening, oh my god.” The words were on a loop in his brain, the entire universe narrowing down to those two phrases. There were warm hands on his back, on his face. Someone was talking, someone else answered, but his ears weren’t working and besides it didn’t matter, because his mom, with her hair that was exact same shade of brown as his and the beginnings of crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes and his dad too, they-

“Bucky! Bucky, look at me!” He obeyed, unthinking, and Natasha’s pale face swam into view. Someone- Clint, had to be- took his fingers and wrapped them around a glass full of purple liquid. Grape juice. “Drink it,” she commanded. “You’re in shock, the sugar will help.” Somehow he managed to lift the glass to his lips. He couldn’t taste the juice and it took him a moment to remember how to swallow. His throat burned. 

“Bucky, I am so, so sorry.” Her hands slipped into his, his fingers held tight in her grip. “I wish things were different, but they’re not and you can’t freak out. There isn’t time. Things are going to get bad here, do you understand that? Come with us. We’re getting out of the city as soon as we’re packed, and you need to come with us.”

Beside him, Clint nodded. “We can stop by your house. Grab Becca and your friend and anything you need.”

Becca. Steve. Their faces flashed through his mind.

“We’ll go get both of them,” Natasha agreed, “but we need to do it soon.”

“But I don’t-“

“It’s going to get _bad_. Really bad. All people are thinking about right now is the inconvenience of their phones and cars not working, but once they realize what this means…” She shook her head, a lock of hair coming loose from her ponytail. “You don’t want to be here when that happens. Please, come with us.”

“I can’t,” he said, and even before the words were out of his mouth, he knew they were true. He thought of Becca and the vials of insulin in the fridge and the blood sugar monitor she carried everywhere with her like a lucky charm. “I _can’t._ Becca- if it was just me, but I can’t, not with her. And besides, my parents, how will they know where-“ He stopped abruptly.

Natasha spoke carefully. He could see her picking her words and hated her a little for it. “They could have survived. Anything’s possible, but Bucky, even if they did get to Atlanta, it’ll be a long, long time before they’re able to get back here. They’d want you and Becca to be safe.”

Feeling was returning to his limbs, brief flashes of clarity through the chaos in in his head. Firmly, he said, “No, I can’t. I won’t risk it. Not with her.”

Natasha opened her mouth, primed for an argument, but stopped when Clint laid a hand on her shoulder. She looked miserable when she spoke again. “If you won’t come with us, at least promise me you’ll be careful. Get what you need and get out of here. Stay at your house, don’t come back into town, not for anything.” Her grip on his hands was so strong his fingers were turning white from the pressure. 

“I will,” he promised, his thoughts clearing bit by bit. There was somewhere he needed to be. “I have to go make sure she’s all right.”

She squeezed his fingers one last time and let go. “She’ll be okay. She’s got you.” He had never hoped so hard in his life as he hoped for that to be true.

“Come with me,” he said, ashamed that it hadn’t occurred to him to offer before. “Come stay at the house. There’s plenty of room and it’s pretty far away from any neighbors. It’ll be safe.”

She smiled sadly at him. “You remember that cabin that my parents owned? The one we went to the summer after senior year? My dad outfitted the whole thing to be one giant panic room a few years back. That’s where we’re going.” 

She stood and he stood with her. Clint had turned away and was rifling through one of the bags. “Here,” he said as he straightened up, handing whatever he had grabbed to Bucky. “Take this.”

It was a gun, 9mm to be exact, though Bucky wasn’t exactly sure on the make of it. It was sleek, matte black, and solid and heavy in his hand. He was familiar enough with guns now in a way he definitely hadn’t been before he moved to the country. One advantage of moving away from New York he supposed. One of the first things his Dad had done was teach him how to shoot. On instinct born of habit, he popped out the magazine, already loaded with ammo, and then cleared the barrel before replacing the magazine and flicking on the safety. 

He caught Clint’s eye. “Won’t you guys need this?”

Clint shook his head as he pressed a box of spare ammunition into Bucky’s hands. “Take it. We have others.”

The rational part of him knew he should, knew it was better to be safe than sorry, but still he hesitated. He wasn’t sure he was even capable of turning a gun on another human being. “Who am I supposed to use this on?” 

Clint’s expression was deadly serious. “Anyone who tries to take what’s yours.”

“This is a small town,” he argued, some part of him not wanting Clint to be right about this. “I’ve known these people almost half my life. So have you. What do you think, the little old lady who runs the diner is gonna try to knife me in my sleep?”

“Maybe not today, maybe not even next week.” His voice was arctic cold, unwelcome and out of season. “But when people are starving and dying? You’ll be glad you have that gun.”

Bucky swallowed hard past a lump in his throat and tucked the gun firmly into the waistband of his jeans. It sat there, cold and heavy against the small of his back, a reminder that everything was different now.

And then Natasha, who had never, not as long as he’d known her, cared for physical contact beyond what was necessary, enveloped him in a hug. He brought his hands up uncertainly and hugged her back, feeling the sharp lines of her shoulder blades underneath his palms. Then she pulled back and kissed him gently on the lips; a small, sad gesture. She smelled like soap and lipstick. The normalcy of it brought tears to his eyes, and he squeezed them tightly shut to stop them from running down his face.

Clint was there when she let go, an air of finality hanging heavy between them. He too, gathered Bucky into a hug, rough and firm. “Don’t you dare fucking kiss me,” he said squeezing tight, and Bucky barked out a surprised laugh. 

“What makes you think I’d want to kiss you anyway?” he said as Clint let go and stepped back. 

“You know you do.”

“In your dreams,” Bucky replied, and he could almost pretend this was just the end to any normal day out. Almost. 

He didn’t linger after the goodbyes, and was out the door and back on his bike in minutes, the last image of them fixed in his mind; Clint loading the magazine on another gun and Natasha smiling sadly at him from the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it!


	5. Chapter 5

The melancholy of leaving Clint and Natasha lasted as long as it took him to get his bike back on the road. Their apartment rapidly disappeared into the distance behind him as he contemplated his next move. Natasha had said to get what he needed and get out of the city, but what did he need? Where did he even start? Dad would know-

_No, don’t think about it. Don’t think about Mom and Dad and a plane going down, screaming through the sky, bits of wreckage and fire and-_

He choked back a sob and brought up a hand to furiously swipe at the tears on his cheeks. He didn’t have time to break down, not now. He had things he had to do; a job, a mission, a sister who was counting on him and a friend that- well, honestly he had no idea what Steve would do. Would he try to get back to New York? The thought made his insides twist. 

The pavement flew by beneath the wheels of his bike as he pedaled furiously through the streets. The sun was high in the sky, the day delivering the warmth that the muggy morning had promised. Wet heat pressed down on his shoulders and chest like a damp blanket, making it hard to breathe. Like light through a prism, his thoughts were scattered in all directions. Reining them in was hard; his brain kept producing images like _twisted metal and fire roaring hot and bright and shards of broken glass and Mom-_

He shook his head so hard he almost saw stars and came close to losing his already precarious control over the bicycle. Basic necessities. That was what he needed to figure out. Food, water, shelter. They were in luck with all three it seemed; there was a root cellar full of preserved food his mother- _don’t think about it, don’t you dare think about it_ \- had been steadily adding to since he was a teenager in case of emergency. Bucky was pretty sure this counted as an emergency. As for water, there was a well on the property. It wasn’t used much, but he was almost certain it was still functional. And of course, they had the house. 

The cold weight of the gun pressed on his lower back and he glanced warily at people on the street as he passed them, Clint’s words echoing in his head. He couldn’t help the suspicious thoughts that crept insidiously through his brain. Would any of them attack if they were hungry enough? Scared enough? Just then he passed a young mother holding the hands of two toddlers who were red in the face from crying and heat. Hot shame flooded him. Had he already gone so far? To look at people as confused and lost as he was and find them a threat? He didn’t even want to think about it.

He was so deep in his own miserable thoughts that he almost missed his stop. At the last second he braked, tires squealing on the asphalt, loud and unpleasant in the unnervingly quiet air. He frowned, eyeing the bike rack. He’d never had to lock his bike here- one of the advantages of small town living over the hustle and bustle of Brooklyn. Shame burned through him a second time as he fastened the bike to a nearby light pole with a barely-used lock, but that still didn’t stop him from double and triple checking it before turning to face the building.

The pharmacy was another one of the older buildings, but not nearly as kept up as the police station. The red brick had faded to a dull, muted brown over the years, and the peeling sign that had once proudly proclaimed ‘Banner’s Drugstore’ had lost so many letters that it was nearly illegible. The Banners were a long family line of pharmacists and physicians who had passed the store down from parent to child for more generations than Bucky cared to count. The current Banner in charge was Bruce, a thirty-something slip of a man with perpetually messy brown hair and a faraway look in his eyes. Some people found him aloof, but Bucky liked him. He was friendly and likeable, and unbelievably smart under his haphazard exterior.

The door was locked tight. Bucky pulled on it and the old hinges creaked and groaned, but the metal handle remained firmly in place. He frowned and stepped back, inspecting the building. The neon OPEN sign was dark, but that was no surprise, and the windows were shuttered tightly. In vain he attempted to pry one open, but it was no use. Bucky knew he should turn and go, but this was important, the only thought that had filled his mind besides his parents- _don’t_ \- since Natasha’s words had brought the world crashing down around his ears. 

He found himself in front of the door again, banging on it with both fists. The vibration sent a deep ache through his arm. “Bruce!” he called. “Bruce, it’s Bucky! Bucky Barnes! Please, it’s an emergency!” 

He tipped his forehead against the door. The metal hadn’t yet shaken the chill of the dawn and it was cool against his heated skin. There was a voice screaming in his head to get back home to Becca and Steve, but he remained quiet, listening desperately for any sign of life in the shop. He rapped on the door again, so hard that more pain stabbed through his arm, sharp as a knife. He glanced warily at the makeshift bandage; it was already crusted with dried blood, rust-red and dark. “Please,” he said again. He could feel the reverberations of his knocking through his skull. “Please, Bruce.”

He was so busy trying to get someone’s attention that he completely missed the noise on the other side of the door. The click of a lock and the heavy slide of a deadbolt, and then the door opened inward a crack. Bucky, who was still leaning against it, went with it, stumbling to regain his balance. He squinted into the darkness, and as he did he realized two very important things. One, as his eyes began to make sense of the gloomy interior of the store he found himself facing down the barrel of a shotgun, and two, he really, really hoped it was Bruce behind it. 

“Get in here. Now.”

The voice was so deadly serious that Bucky forgot to even be relieved that it was Bruce’s. He obeyed immediately, darting inside the shop. He was reminded vividly of his welcome at Clint and Natasha’s. “Geez, the hospitality around here sucks today,” he muttered under his breath as he got his bearings. 

With the door closed and once again locked and deadbolted, the interior was even darker than before. The shuttered windows allowed no light in, and the air inside was stifling, like an oven. His eyes widened as he took in the scene. The normally tidy store was in chaos; displays knocked down, signs overturned. An entire shelf was lying on its side, boxes and bottles scattered across the floor. He turned and looked at Bruce, whose normally unkempt hair was even wilder than usual, shotgun resting loosely in his hand and a grim expression on his face.

“What the hell happened here?”

Bruce exhaled heavily through his nose. “Some idiots looking for narcotics. Don’t look so surprised.” Bucky quickly snapped his mouth shut and Bruce continued, “It’s the first thing addicts think about in an emergency. People can go crazy pretty quickly.” He glanced around the store and grimaced. 

_An emergency_ , he had said. So it seemed that Bruce had already gotten the message. Bucky wasn’t surprised. Bruce watched him carefully as he gazed around the ruined store. “Are you okay?” Bucky asked.

Bruce snorted in amusement and tapped the barrel of the gun. “I’m fine. They didn’t get anything, just made a hell of a mess.” He looked around warily. “Come on, to the back. I don’t like to be this close to the windows.”

Bucky trailed behind him as Bruce led him through the store, picking carefully over the merchandise scattered across the floor. “Listen, Bruce,” he said, “do you know what’s going on?”

Bruce turned his head and gave him a hard look over his shoulder before saying, “I know enough to keep the pharmacy locked up tight.”

He turned his back on Bucky and pulled open the door that led to the stockroom. It was even dimmer in there, windowless walls oppressive, and only the flickering light of a candle on the old wooden desk in the corner to light the space. There were shelves in here too, lined with carefully labeled bottles, more medicines than Bucky could even count, much less name. He realized with a start that Bruce was sitting on a goldmine. No wonder he had been acting so paranoid. After all, it was the first place Bucky had thought of; there was no way he was the only one, and not everyone would have the good intentions he did.

“Bruce, I-“ he began, but Bruce cut him off before he could even finish formulating the thought.

“You’re here for Becca’s insulin?”

Bucky nodded as Bruce’s hard look softened. He had always had a soft spot for the younger Barnes’ sibling. He had taken a shine to Becca immediately when the Barnes’ had first arrived in town, falling in love with the little girl with the gap-toothed smile and crooked pigtails. Becca had always been able to charm any adult she came across, and Bruce was no exception. He had made a habit of giving her small treats and toys whenever they came with their parents to pick up medication, palming it across the counter like a secret only the two of them shared. 

“There’s only one vial left in the fridge at home. That’s two weeks at most. Please, I need whatever you have.”

Bruce’s expression was pained. He paused before he spoke, clearly carefully picking his words. “There are other kids in town that need it too. I’ve got two other type 1 diabetics, both children, the Carver boy and Mary Elgin, not to mention a dozen adults with type 2 besides.” His eyes met Bucky’s, full of sorrow but also hard resolve. “I don’t have enough for even one of them. There was a supposed to be a shipment tomorrow.”

Bucky swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying people are going to die.”

The blunt words shot through him like a lightning bolt, electrifying every nerve in his body. “Bruce, this is Becca.” He didn’t care how he sounded, didn’t care if he had to get down on his knees and beg. Nothing in his life had ever been as important as this moment. “Please, this is my sister, please.”

Bruce’s face twisted in pain as he fought with himself. Bucky didn’t move, didn’t breathe, until finally Bruce said, “I can give you two.”

A small bit of relief rushed through him, and he sucked in a shaky breath. It was enough for now. And- perhaps foolishly- he hoped that by the time it was out there would be a solution to all this. “Thank you. Thank you.”

He grabbed at Bruce’s hand and squeezed it tight, bowing his head down in supplication. Bruce hesitated and then squeezed his hand back before shaking it off. For the first time since Bucky had entered the store Bruce put down the gun, resting it gently on an empty shelf near the door. Again, Bucky followed him as he exited the stockroom and walked quickly around the store, gathering items as he went: a small blue handheld cooler and a gaudily patterned beach towel, a stack of candy bars from the displays near the register. 

“Go to the freezer,” he said, pointing at the large unit on the back wall. “Grab a bag of ice.”

Bucky pulled the door open with a soft pop. The momentary blast of chilly air was heaven in the heavy heat, and he closed his eyes for a moment, savoring it. He hadn’t realized how much he appreciated air conditioning until it was gone. The freezer was still filled with stacks of bagged ice, the coldness of the ice itself along with the vacuum seal of the freezer keeping it frozen. Despite that, there was already a steadily growing puddle of water gathering at the bottom.

He hefted out a bag and shut the freezer. The condensation soaked his t-shirt, and he shivered as it hit his skin. Dumping the bag on the counter next to the cooler, he looked expectantly at Bruce.

“Where are you storing the insulin?” Bruce asked as he split the plastic bag with the tip of a pen. 

“In the fridge.”

“Move it to the freezer. Deep freeze if you have it. The ice should keep it for a while as long as you don’t open it any more than you need to.” He dumped the ice into the cooler and laid the towel over top of it, then disappeared behind the counter to grab the two precious vials of insulin. He laid them gently on top of the whole thing and shut the cooler. “Don’t put them directly on the ice. They’ll freeze and then the insulin will be useless. When the ice runs out, move it to the coolest spot in the house. It needs to be kept as close to forty degrees as possible. Every ten degree increase cuts the shelf life in half.”

Bucky nodded fervently as Bruce handed him the cooler and a bag full of candy bars. “Keep those for an emergency,” Bruce added. “They should work to bring her blood sugar up to normal for a little while if you need it.”

“Thank you,” Bucky said again. He had never heard less adequate words in his life, but it was all he had to give. “Thank you.” He turned to go, but a thought had him facing Bruce again. “Are you going to be okay here? We have plenty of room at the house. You’re welcome to come with me.”

Bruce reached for the gun and hoisted it over his shoulder. “I’ll be fine,” he said, mouth twisting in a sad expression. “Besides, I have a responsibility to the people of this town.” His resolve was firm and Bucky didn’t try to fight it.

“Thank you again. I can’t ever repay you.”

Bruce sighed, following Bucky to the door, their roles reversed. “Just take care of her Bucky. And yourself.” He offered his hand and Bucky shifted the cooler to rest on his hip as he took it. Bruce’s grip was firm and steady and he smiled, face tight, as he saw Bucky off. 

The sound of the deadbolt sliding back into place felt like thud of the final nail in a coffin. No one had touched his bike while he was inside it seemed, and the street was empty save for cars that decorated the road like so much useless detritus.

For just a moment, as he mounted the bike and balanced the cooler across his handlebars, he considered going back inside to ask Bruce for some kind of antiseptic. The wound on his arm pulsed slowly in time with his heart, as if to remind him of its presence. But Bruce had been more than generous already, and to ask for more wouldn’t be right. Besides, he had to get home.

 

\---

 

Steve and Becca were in the backyard playing with Winter when Bucky finally got back to the house. A shriek of laughter and Steve’s deep-throated chuckles reached his ears as he rounded the corner. Winter flew past him, a black and white streak with a dirty tennis ball, and Bucky thanked whatever power existed in the universe for Steve’s presence. Becca was laughing and happy, and Steve had made her that way on a day when the world had never looked more bleak. That was worth a fortune in Bucky’s eyes.

Becca saw him first and ran towards him, long brown hair flying behind her. “You’re back! Did you figure out what’s up with the power?”

It hit him then. They didn’t know. And of course they didn’t, how could they? For them, he’d been out for a few hours, but for him it felt like he’d lived years in the time he’d been gone. Becca’s face was eager, the trace of a smile still on her lips, and Bucky hated himself for what he had to tell her. Steve came up behind her, face neutral, eyes searching Bucky’s. He looked at the two of them and it was like looking back in time. He longed to be there with them, back before all of this had happened. The knowledge of it sat like tar on his skin, heavy and foul.

“Bucky?” Steve asked quietly. Bucky forced a tight smile onto his lips and handed the cooler off to Becca, leaning his bike up against the porch as he did.

“Becca, I need you to do something for me.” In the few seconds that had passed, Becca had caught onto the mood and nodded seriously, none of her usual back-talk. “I want you to go pull all of the meat out of the deep freezer and put it in the kitchen. Then dump all the ice we’ve got in the freezer.” He tapped the top of the cooler. “There’s insulin in here, and a towel. You need to lay the towel over the ice and put the insulin from here and the fridge on top of it and then close it tight. Can you do that?”

She nodded again and opened her mouth to speak. “I promise,” he cut her off, “I’ll tell you what’s going on in a minute, but I need you to do this for me _now._ ”

He waited until the screen door banged shut behind her before turning to Steve. He didn’t even have to say anything. “It’s bad, isn’t it?” Steve said.

It was both a question and a statement at the same time. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

He recounted everything that had happened on his trip into town, from the frenzied crowd at the police station, to the stalled out cars, to hurting his arm- Steve had bitten his lip and demanded to see it but Bucky had brushed him off- to Clint and Natasha’s dire words and Bruce’s kindness at the pharmacy. Steve took it all in, his mouth a tense line. The only sign that he was even listening was the continued tightening of his fists against his sides. For a moment, Bucky saw the defiant teenager Steve had been instead of the even-keeled man he had become. He ached for the old Steve but quashed the feeling as quickly as it had come. Steve heard him out, the entire story, eyes flicking to the makeshift bandage on Bucky’s arm every few seconds. Finally he said, “Fuck.”

That pretty much summed it up, inelegant as it was. “Yeah,” Bucky agreed. “Fuck.”

Then Steve said the words that Bucky had been dreading since he had pulled onto the property. “When are your mom and dad getting home?” Like Bucky, he didn’t understand at first, and Bucky felt a sudden pang of sympathy for Natasha. It wasn’t an easy thing, to explain something so incomprehensible to a person already on the verge of panic.

“They’re-“ he tried and the lump in his throat suddenly rematerialized. “The plane-“ he tried again and found he couldn’t speak.

“Bucky?” Steve moved cautiously closer as Bucky’s throat closed up, sudden and painful. “Tell me, what’s going on?”

“They-“ He fought against the words with everything in him, pushing them down, wishing he could grind them into the dust and make himself forget he had ever heard them in the first place. His eyes burned with unshed tears and _no, no, no, not now, don’t freak out now you’ve got things to do and you can’t you can’t you can’t-_

Steve’s arms were around him then, holding him tightly, engulfing Bucky in body heat and the faint hints of sweat and aftershave. The tears he couldn’t stop soaked Steve’s shirt as he clutched at him, burying his face in the fabric. One of Steve’s large hands settled on top of his head, not petting at his hair but just staying there, a solid, comforting presence. 

They stayed that way for a long time, until Bucky had cried himself out, eyes raw and red. He felt like a wrung-out dish towel, but forced himself to stand upright and push away from Steve’s embrace. The loss of it ached just as badly as his arm.

“So what’s the plan?” Steve asked, gently guiding Bucky back to the present. 

Bucky took a deep, shaky breath, closing his eyes, and as he exhaled, he pushed every last bit of panic out. No time for that now. No time for anything anymore. 

“We need to figure out how much food we’ve got and make sure the well’s still good. Oh, and Winter, we need to make sure she’s got food. And um-“ He faltered, the false sense of confidence already failing. “Firewood, right? For when it gets cold. I know it’s summer, but it could take a long time to get enough. Oh, and Mom’s got a vegetable garden, we should check that out, and there’s-“

“How ‘bout we just start with the food and water?” Steve said, interrupting before Bucky could babble any further. He was grateful. There were already cracks in his thin veneer of calm, and he could feel them getting wider with every word. Any more and it would shatter completely. There was a sudden high-pitched whining at his side, and then Winter’s cold nose found its way into his hand. Between her comforting presence and Steve’s quiet support, he pulled the pieces of himself tighter together. They would hold a while longer- they would have to.

Becca’s return was announced by the dull thud of the screen door banging open. “Don’t say anything,” he said quickly. “I need to be the one to tell her.”

Steve tipped his head in acknowledgement as Becca came running up. “I did what you asked,” she said. Her pale, freckled cheeks were red from exertion in the unairconditioned house and the hair at her temples was dark with sweat. “I emptied the deep freezer in the basement. There was some super old stuff in there.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “It’s all on the kitchen table though.”

“And the insulin?” he asked.

She glared at him like he ought to know better. “I’m not stupid, Bucky, I can follow directions. It’s in the freezer.”

The urge to snap back at her was strong, but he held his tongue. Getting into fights wouldn’t do them any good right now. “Thank you.”

“So are you going to tell me what’s going on now, or what?” She stood with arms crossed and one hip cocked, the very picture of teenage indignation.

Ignoring her, he turned to Steve. “You know how to work a grill?”

Steve at least, didn’t give him any lip, just nodded quietly.

“Okay,” Bucky said, a plan coming together quickly in his head. Having something to do calmed him, made him feel more in control. “Back porch. There’s a grill and a couple bags of charcoal. Go ahead and cook everything that came out of the deep freezer, it’s all going to go bad anyway. At least this way we can get some use out of it.”

Steve threw him a lazy salute and turned on his heel, leaving Bucky alone with Becca. Somehow, he seemed to know what Bucky needed before he even had to vocalize it. The thought made him smile. Were it not for the herculean task in front of him, he might have even said it made him happy.

“Becca, come here.” He forced himself to say it, afraid that if he waited any longer the words would get stuck in his throat and choke him to death. He walked and she followed him silently. To the side of the shed was an old swing set that Becca had adored when she was younger. Now, paint was peeling off the metal bars in ugly patches and the chains squeaked and left red rust stains on his fingers. Dad had been saying for ages that he’d tear the thing down before it hurt someone, but he had never quite gotten around to it. Bucky took a seat, the old metal creaking and groaning beneath his weight. He pushed the second seat towards Becca, who caught it by one of the swinging chains. “Come sit with me.”

“Bucky what’s going on?” She was still standing, chain held in one hand, all traces of sarcasm gone from her voice now. She had sensed his seriousness and now she was probably scared. And she should be. He was terrified.

“Sit,” he said again, and this time she did, wrapping her slender hands around the chains and staring at him with wide eyes.

“Something’s happened, something big. I don’t want you to worry about it though. I’ll take care of it, I promise.” He pasted a weak smile on his face and ignored the twisting of his gut. “It’s gonna be awhile before the power comes back on though, so we need to make sure we’ll be okay on food and stuff until then.”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously at him. His fake smile felt stiff at the corners. “What exactly happened?” she asked.

He hesitated. So far today he hadn’t had time to even think a few minutes ahead, let alone far enough to try and come up with a way to counter her suspicions when she clearly saw right through his lies. “Look Becs, it’s complicated. It’s-“

“Cut the shit Bucky. I’m fifteen not five.”

It was funny. He’d never thought of himself as an especially dishonest person, but sitting there, looking at her, so much like he had been at that age but better in almost every way that mattered, he had never wanted to lie more in his life. But a lie wouldn’t help her now. All it would do was hurt her more when she inevitably found out the truth.

“Some kind of attack, maybe. That’s what Clint and Natasha think.”

“You talked to Tasha?”

“I stopped at their apartment when I was in town. She thinks it was something called an EMP. It’s- actually I don’t think I could explain it if I tried. It’s some kind of bomb, but instead of blowing stuff up, it knocked out all the electronics. So no power, which means we’re stuck here for a while. But we’ve got plenty of food and water, and me and Steve are gonna take care of things, okay?”

Throughout his whole speech she had remained very still, with the only indication that she had even heard him a tiny twist of her lips. She stayed that way when he finished, swaying slightly on the swing seat, the sharp squeak of the chains the only noise. He was quiet, letting her absorb it all at her own pace. After all, there’d be nothing to do but talk in the days to come.

Finally she said, “What about Mom and Dad? If nothing’s working, how are they gonna get home?”

The grief was like swallowing a hot coal. It burned its way down through his throat and into his stomach, settling there with a fire that scorched his insides. He wanted to scream, run, cry, anything, but he couldn’t. He had had his time to cry and now his only job was to protect her. The look on her face shattered him. _She didn’t realize._ And why should she? What fifteen year old thinks about death?

In the end, he took the coward’s way out. “It… it might be awhile before we see them again.”

God, he was a failure.

Her eyebrows furrowed. “But-“

He cut her off before she could ask a question he didn’t feel capable of answering. “Come on, we’ve got stuff to do before it gets dark.”

He stood and waited for her, unable to meet her eyes. His feet scuffed patterns in the dirt and his fists clenched and unclenched in an unsteady rhythm. After a moment of hesitation she got up and followed him back to the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> =] Hope you liked it.


	6. Chapter 6

The day slipped by quickly as they worked. Steve cooked all the meat that had been in the freezer, with Winter tailing after him begging for a snack. Bucky hauled several bags of rock salt up from the basement and they salted the majority of the meat to preserve it. With any luck it would last them quite a while, even longer if they rationed. He sent Becca on a mission to throw open all the windows in the house in a desperate attempt to catch a cross-breeze. Otherwise it would be too hot to sleep indoors, and as much as he liked camping for fun, he didn’t want to sleep outside if they didn’t have to. The well was a challenge. While Becca filled up any spare containers she could find with tap water before the lines ran dry, he and Steve spent two back-breaking hours getting the well into working condition. But in the end, they had something like fresh water, and Bucky couldn’t help but grin at Steve- blond hair plastered to his head with sweat and dirt on his cheek- like they had just won the lottery.

They had a small pile of firewood already stacked up in the shade of the shed, which was just enough for a family enjoying the occasional summer campfire. However, it was nothing near like what they’d need to make it through the winter. Bucky made a mental note to start working on that as soon as possible. Freezing to death didn’t sound all that pleasant.

At one point in the afternoon, when Steve was hip-deep in canned food and preserves in the root cellar and Becca was taking stock of Winter’s dog food, Bucky slipped into the house for a task of his own.

His parent’s bedroom was just as they had left it before their vacation; damask comforter pulled across the bed, a stack of unopened mail on the dresser, a pair of his dad’s khakis thrown across the chair, his mother’s perfume bottles lined up neatly on the vanity. He reached for one, only to stop at the last moment, hand hovering uncertainly over the amber glass bottle. He didn’t want to touch it. The room was just the way it had been. They could have just walked out the door, but if he touched it, then it would be true. If he touched it, then she would be gone. Somewhere in the back of his head his rational mind knew it made no sense. They were gone and a fucking perfume bottle wasn’t changing any of it- but still he hesitated, and finally withdrew his hand, leaving the vanity untouched.

Under the bed an unassuming black case sat with a large lock looped around the handle. He had already grabbed the key from its hiding place in the bathroom cabinet. His dad would be ( _would’ve been_ , his mind corrected him) upset to know that he and Becca had figured out his go to spot for hiding things years ago. They’d both been faking surprise at every birthday and Christmas since Bucky was seventeen years old.

The lock opened easily and Bucky pried open the case. The thing he was after sat nestled in black shock-absorbing foam, foreboding. The Glock was heavier than the gun Clint had given him, and he went through the same motions as he had that morning; removing the clip, clearing the barrel, making sure it was still in working order. There was a box of ammunition in the top of the closet, and he quickly loaded the magazine and popped it into place. Only then did he hesitate. He needed to give the gun to Steve, but he didn’t want Becca to see. He didn’t want her to know yet, never wanted her to know the sick feeling of having to look at her friends and neighbors like they were the enemy.

He placed the gun gently back into its case but left it unlocked, sliding it back under the bed. They would be fine for now. The gun could wait.

 

\---

 

To his surprise, that night was almost… fun. As the sun slipped below the horizon, the three of them sat on the back porch, slouched across the warm wood in varying stages of fatigue. Bucky was flat on his back, one arm across his eyes to block out the light, seriously debating whether or not it was possible for him to slip between the wooden slats and just die under there from exhaustion. He was just about to voice his question when something hit him in the face; something unpleasantly smelly and damp. He shot upright, pulling the offending fabric away. It took him a second to realize what he was looking at: Steve’s shirt.

Like a magnet, his eyes were drawn to the smooth planes of Steve’s chest, the beads of sweat along his clavicle, the deep V of his abdomen disappearing into his jeans. Bucky quickly looked away and prayed that the shadows cast by the setting sun were deep enough to hide his sudden blush. Becca, however, had no such shame.

“Damn Steve! You got _built_.”

“ _Becca!_ ” With speed born of some sort of older sibling reflex, he reached over and clapped a hand over her mouth. “What the fuck? Steve’s like your brother!”

She yanked his hand away, glaring. “Just ‘cause he’s like my brother doesn’t mean I’m _blind_ , Bucky.”

Steve looked deeply uncomfortable and very much like he regretted taking off the shirt in the first place. Well, Bucky could certainly relate with him there- he was also regretting that Steve had done it. 

“Fucking gross,” Bucky said, as he flung the damp t-shirt back in Steve’s direction. “Both of you. Steve, for throwing your nasty-ass shirt on my face, and _you_ ,” he pointed at Becca, ”for just- figure it out!”

He threw himself back down on the porch, perhaps a touch more dramatically than necessary, as Becca giggled and Steve tugged his shirt back on, thankfully covering his chest. “Sorry,” Steve muttered, “I didn’t, uh-”.

Bucky rolled his eyes up at the wooden-slatted ceiling of the porch. “It’s fine.”

By the time he had cooled off enough to face them, he found Steve hauling small logs over from the firewood stack as he directed Becca on how to set them up and arrange kindling around them. 

“I completely forgot,” Bucky said, coming up to Steve and relieving him of half his burden. The pain in his arm flared briefly at the sudden weight and he bit back the whimper before it could escape. “You were a boy scout, weren’t you?”

Steve shrugged as he dumped the load of firewood by Becca’s feet. “Not really. I was always too sick to go camping, but I really wanted to, so I taught myself all the stuff in the manual.”

Bucky huffed in amusement and joined Becca in putting the finishing touches on the artfully arranged stack. “Lucky us.”

It only took one match, the bright flames burning quickly through the dry sticks and leaves and licking merrily up the sides of the bigger logs. It was far too hot to sit close to it without being miserable, but the light it provided was bright, shadows flickering back and forth in wisp-like patterns over the ground. There had been some burger patties in the meat that had been dug out of the freezer that wouldn’t preserve well, so they made a meal out of them, along with vegetables that Bucky roasted on the grill. It was almost like camping, and for a second Bucky could even forgot about the terrible weight on his shoulders.

After they ate Becca wandered away down towards the treeline with Winter at her side. Dark had truly fallen hours ago, and beyond the little circle of firelight the night was full of shadows. Bucky pushed himself up off the ground, intending to go follow her, call her back toward the warmth and the light, when he felt a tug on his good arm. When he glanced over his shoulder, Steve was looking up at him, shaking his head slightly.

“Let her go,” he said. “She’s been hit with a lot today. She needs to process it.”

Bucky bit his lip, every instinct in him screaming to keep her in his sight.

“She’ll be fine, Buck.”

“But…” The words stuck in his throat, a cheap disguise to cover the thing he really feared. The demon that was eating him from the inside out. _There were three. Three vials of insulin, and one day soon they would run out, and then-_

No. He couldn’t do this. Not now, on top of everything else.

He let out a sigh of frustration and dropped back down to the ground beside Steve, listening hard for anything that might indicate Becca was in trouble. There was nothing though; just the crack and pop of burning wood and the rustle of small animals through the grass.

“She really will be alright, you know. She’s a tough kid, and she’s got you.”

“Like that ever did anyone any good,” Bucky muttered.

Beside him, Steve was balling up blades of grass and tossing them into the fire absentmindedly. “Did me pretty good having you around when we were younger.”

“Yeah, sure.” Bucky stared into the fire at the twisting flames that seemed to dance as they licked along the dried bark. He had to work to hold in the words he really wanted to say. _Clearly not, or you wouldn’t have stopped talking to me._

“Lemme look at your arm.”

Bucky tore his gaze away from the mesmerizing movement of the fire to look at Steve, who was staring back expectantly, and then glanced at his own arm. The scarf wrapped around the gash was stiff with dried blood and sweat, and streaked with dirt from the work they had done all afternoon. He had almost forgotten in all the hustle and bustle of the day, but now that the panic had subsided a bit he was really starting to feel it. The wound throbbed in time with his pulse. It felt like the ache went right down to the bone.

“Go ahead.”

He extended his arm out towards Steve, who inched closer and closer until he was all but sitting in Bucky’s lap. Bucky’s body was in a tug-of-war match with his brain over whether to close the distance between them completely or to squirm away. Steve’s touch was delicate as he pulled off the ruined scarf and examined the injury, long fingers probing the skin and retracting quickly when Bucky flinched.

“Wow, Buck. This is really deep. What exactly did you do again?”

Bucky snorted. “Bike accident, if you can believe it. Some lady surprised me on the road. Pretty sure I actually went airborne at one point. She was nice though,” he added at the end, because she had been, even if the accident had been her fault.

Steve didn’t look impressed. “I can’t believe you’re gonna blame your horrible bike skills on some poor, innocent woman.”

“Fuck you. You’re just still mad because you could never beat me to school.”

Steve grinned, a quick flash that made Bucky’s insides feel strangely warm and soft. It faded quickly though as Steve finished inspecting his arm. “I think it needs stitches.”

“Really?” He could see immediately that Steve was right. The cut was deep, edges jagged, bits of road debris still visible in it. Fuck. He really should have taken the time to do something about it earlier, but everything else had seemed more important; it had been the least of his worries. “Can you do it?”

“What?” Steve’s eyes were so wide it was almost comical.

Bucky raised an eyebrow at him. “You _are_ a medical student, aren’t you?”

“I’m not-“ he started, sputtering slightly, “-not really. I’m still in pre-med. I don’t know how to do anything like that.”

“Well, unless you think Winter somehow knows how to stitch it up, you’re all we’ve got right now.”

Steve shook his head again, eyes still wide. “I can’t,” he said. “What if I mess up your arm?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time you fucked me over, Steve. I’m sure I’ll get over it.” His arm really hurt. Now that he had stopped moving, all the adrenaline had left him and he was crashing fast. The pain made him spiteful, and he didn’t particularly care if he hurt Steve’s feelings. He’d had to spend the day manning up- now it was Steve’s turn. “Just fucking do it.”

Steve swallowed visibly, and the light of the fire highlighted the miserable look on his face as he got to his feet to go get supplies from the house. Bucky rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, trying to prepare himself for what would surely be a very unpleasant experience. Steve quickly hurried back with everything they would need and spread the materials out overtop of a towel grabbed from the hall closet. He sat back on his heels and was silent for a very long minute as if he was steeling himself, breathing deeply, eyes unfocused. Finally, he took a last deep breath and exhaled it, straightening up, and sometime between that breath and the next, all his apprehension seemed to leave him. He picked through the items on the ground and went to work without any hesitation. Turned off his fear, just like that. Bucky wished he knew the secret. Steve’s future patients were lucky, he thought fondly. He would be a fantastic doctor.

Any sense of fondness he felt for Steve evaporated the instant he touched the first bit of antiseptic to his skin. “Fuck!” he hissed, yanking his arm back reflexively.

Steve pulled it back and continued to clean out the wound with cotton soaked in rubbing alcohol. “Don’t fight, it’ll just make this take longer.”

Bucky had changed his mind. Steve would be a terrible doctor. He told him so repeatedly as Steve dug a large pebble out of the wound with a pair of tweezers he had sterilized with alcohol and the fire. Steve just rolled his eyes and continued working and finally, _finally_ the damn thing was clean.

Bucky closed his eyes, suppressing a hysterical giggle that he thought might turn into a scream if Steve touched his arm again. “Fuck, that hurt more than I thought it would.”

Steve tapped his fingers on his thigh, contemplating. “I have to do the actual stitches now, and that’s going to be worse. A _lot_ worse. Is there anything in the house you could take? Any painkillers?”

Bucky shook his head, the twist of his neck somehow aggravating his arm. He felt like every pain receptor on his body had migrated there and Steve had set them all on fire. “Mom doesn’t like to keep that stuff around the house. ‘Too many chemicals,’ she says.” He would laugh, if he was sure it wouldn’t turn into crying. “Just do it,” he said, and gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

It was so, so much worse than he had imagined. They didn’t have the right kind of needle, having to make due with the smallest one that Steve had been able to find in his mother’s sewing kit. Thread soaked in rubbing alcohol stood in for medical-grade stitching material, and of course there was the complete absence of any kind of numbing agent or painkiller, not even a goddamn tylenol. Bucky felt each and every drag of the needle through his skin, nerves on a razor’s edge, and he had to stuff his fist into his mouth to keep from screaming. He didn’t want to scare Becca who, _thank God_ , was still off with Winter.

The needle tore through his skin, angled too deep down into the muscle, and he bit down so hard on his fingers he tasted blood. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He kept a steady litany of curses as Steve worked.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Steve kept repeating. “I’m going as quick as I can, I’m so sorry.”

The needle was back out now, dragging the thread behind it, slick with his blood. Steve tugged to pull the skin together and Bucky gasped like the air had been punched out of him. “Distract me!”

“What?” Steve paused and looked at him, confused.

“Don’t fucking stop! Just- distract me! Talk!”

“About what?”

“I don’t care!”

“Oh, um-“ The order seemed to take Steve aback. He looked more panicked at the prospect of having to talk to distract Bucky than he ever had at the idea of stitching someone up with a sewing needle and embroidery thread in the first place. “I- I mean, what do you- How do you feel?“

“I _feel_ ,” Bucky said harshly, as Steve pulled tight on the thread again, a burst of agony lancing through his shredded skin, “like I’m getting a fucking needle shoved into my arm. Talk about something else!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Steve said quickly. “It just slipped out.”

Bucky groaned and buried his face in his other hand. “Oh my god, you’re the _worst_.”

Steve managed to glare at him and work at the same time. “Well, you’re not exactly a model patient, Bucky, Christ.”

“Yeah, well you’ve got shitty bedside manner.”

“Yeah, well, normally there’s sedation involved,” Steve snapped back. “And gloves, and sterile equipment, and _actual medical training_ so make _fucking_ do. We’re halfway done, anyway,” he added. “Do you need a break?”

“No.” Bucky gritted his teeth so hard he tasted the metallic tang of blood. The grinding ache of his jaws distracted him momentarily from the pain. “Tell me about school.”

It was impossible to miss the way Steve’s face lit up at the thought. Bucky didn’t understand it himself; he had never liked school, and had relied on Steve’s help to get him through most assignments. His grades had taken a nosedive after the move that his parents had attributed to difficulty adjusting. He hadn’t had the heart to tell them it was because he’d never been good in the first place. But Steve had always been heading towards bigger and better things, and when Bucky had found out his old ex-friend was gunning for medical school, he hadn’t been the least bit surprised.

“It’s good,” Steve said, “really, really good. The work is hard, but I was prepared for that going in. I’ve kept my GPA high, so I’m feeling good at my applications to med school.” His smile dimmed slightly. “But I guess that doesn’t matter so much anymore.”

Bucky cut in quickly, trying to head off Steve’s depression as well as he could. “Always knew you’d end up doing something crazy smart. I guess doctor is a good way to go.”

“Yeah.” The corner of Steve’s mouth twisted ruefully as he shook off the moment. “And the people in my department are all really nice. It makes things easier.”

A bitter feeling went through Bucky like lightning, and it took him a second to identify it. _Jealousy._ What the hell had brought that on? Steve was allowed to have friends. They hadn’t been close in years, and besides, Bucky hadn’t exactly sworn off new friends either. “That’s good, that you have friends,” he said, and then paused and forced the words out of a throat that was suddenly too dry. “Anyone special?”

“Ah, um- no,” Steve replied after a moment, eyes firmly fixed on Bucky’s arm. “Not so much. My uh, boyfriend and I broke up a few months ago. He was great and all, but he just wasn’t what I was looking for. I’ve never been able to find someone who-“ he cut himself off, a blush rising to his cheeks, standing out even on his tanned skin. “Yeah, so…no.”

“Oh.” Why did that answer make Bucky feel like his heart had come unmoored in his chest? So Steve was single, and apparently out now. All this time he had thought… But it didn’t matter. Steve had made it perfectly clear how he felt about a relationship with Bucky a long time ago and besides-

“Ow, fuck!”

“Almost done!,” Steve assured him quickly. “I know, I know, that was a bad one, I’m sorry.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Steve, you’re trying to stitch me up not sew a fucking quilt!”

“Yeah, and I’d get it done faster if you’d shut up,” Steve huffed. A last, final, painful tug on the thread and then, “There. Done.”

Bucky almost collapsed in relief, the only thing holding him up being Steve’s steady grip on his arm as he wrapped a layer of gauze soaked with antiseptic around the newly stitched area and secured it with duct tape.

“Seriously?” Bucky asked, looking at the silver tape and then up at Steve, lips pursed in annoyance.

“It was all I could find,” Steve admitted.

“Great,” Bucky muttered. His arm still throbbed, but it was a different kind of pain; more of a deep, persistent ache than the sharp agony it had been. “Not only am I gonna look like fucking Frankenstein, I also get to pull all the hair off my arm.”

“Frankenstein’s monster,” Steve corrected automatically.

If looks could kill, Bucky’s glare would have put Steve into an early grave. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

Steve stretched out on the ground, far enough away from the fire to take advantage of the light without the heat making it too unbearable. He leaned back on his elbows and shrugged. “Sorry.”

He didn’t sound sorry at all, but Bucky was suddenly too exhausted to care. It was like all the energy and adrenaline had been sucked out of him, leaving him an empty void. He slumped to the ground as well, avoiding his bad arm, his head so close to Steve’s that he could feel the soft, wispy strands of blonde hair on his cheek with every gentle breeze.

“I’m sorry,” he said, closing his eyes. “For being such a dick. I really am glad you’re here.”

He fell asleep soon after that, but he could have sworn he heard Steve say, ‘So am I”.

 

\---

 

A gentle touch on his good shoulder woke him, and Bucky sat upright like a shot. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, only to close his eyes and rest a bit. How long had he been out? It felt like hours. The fire had eaten through the logs, and fresh ones hadn’t been added. Low blue flames licked along charred bark and ash, hungry for more wood to feed on.

“Becca?” he asked, already half-panicked, voice rough with sleep.

“In bed already,” Steve replied, and the breath Bucky didn’t know he’d been holding rushed out in an exhale of relief. “Don’t worry, I kept an eye on her. Walked her into the house myself.”

“Thanks,” Bucky said genuinely. “How long was I out?”

“Hour and a half, maybe two?” Steve shrugged. “Thought I’d let you sleep, but the fire’s dying so we should probably head in.”

The two of them made short work of the remnants of the fire, smothering it with dirt and tamping it down to keep the last dying embers from flaring up again in the night. Without the fire it was dark- darker than Bucky had ever seen, even living out here away from the big city lights. The moon was a sliver and the midnight sky was cloudless. Stars shone above his head, thousands of pinpricks of light, a million possible universes, ten billion planets. He didn’t even realized he had stopped, head tipped back to stare, until Steve spoke up beside him.

“Don’t see that every day.”

“No, you don’t.”

They stayed like that for a while, eyes turned upward, drinking in the mysterious beauty of the universe, until Bucky felt a strange sense of peace settle over him. It was comforting in a way; so much had changed for him today, for all of them, but the sky remained the same.

The inner sense of calm lasted only as long as it took him to say goodnight to Steve and change into pajamas. He resisted the urge to crack open Becca’s door as he passed down the hallway, trusting that Steve had done as he said.

The soft bed was a welcome reprieve for his stiff and sore muscles, but did nothing for the whirlwind that was his mind. Any comfort he had been able to draw from Steve and the stars had evaporated. Sleep refused to come, and it seemed like his arm ached no matter what position he tried. The room was hot, even with the open windows.

His mind raced as he tossed and turned on the crumpled sheets, arm twinging badly whenever he used it to support any of his weight. The persistent throbbing made it hard to get comfortable. God, what if it didn’t heal? He’d be useless with only one working arm.He couldn’t take care of Becca like that. In that moment, he wished more than anything that he could talk to his dad. George Barnes was- _no don’t start again now_ \- a good man; strong, upright, moral. Bucky wondered if his dad would have been proud of the job he was doing. Probably not, he thought bitterly, clenching his eyes shut against the sudden burn of unshed tears.

“Bucky?”

His eyes flew open and he sat upright so fast that he was momentarily light-headed. Becca was standing there in the doorway, the dim light of the moon through the open window only just illuminating the miserable expression on her face. “Becca? Is everything alright? What’s happened?”

She was quiet and shook her head no, and for a second Bucky had the horrible thought that she’d managed to injure herself. But she wasn’t moving like she was hurt physically, and not acting like it either. Her next words were almost enough to make him wish that she was though, because he could deal with a cut or a broken bone far better than he could deal with this.

“Mom and Dad aren’t coming home, are they?”

He hesitated, wondering how to respond, when she followed up with, “Don’t lie to me. Please, Bucky.”

She was staring pointedly at the ground, and Bucky found himself relieved he didn’t have to look her in the face right now. Her hands twisted anxiously in the worn-out fur of an old stuffed rabbit. He held back his noise of surprise; he hadn’t seen that thing in years, at least not since Becca was seven. But before that, when she was very young, you’d have been hard-pressed to ever find her without it. He hadn’t even realized it had made the move to Indiana with them. The stuffed toy was ratty and patched in several places, once white fur now a dingy gray. Becca’s knuckles were white with the force that she held it against her chest.

“No,” he finally said, and the word burned like acid in his throat.

Her face fell and her grip on the rabbit tightened even more. She looked small and lost, silhouetted in the doorway, and Bucky’s heart broke for her. He pulled his knees up to his chest and patted the empty space next to him. She was across the room in an instant, clambering up beside him like the little kid that she hadn’t been in so long.

Beside him, her voice was so quiet he almost missed it. “They’re dead, aren’t they.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

She dissolved into silent tears, as if her sorrow was too great even for sound on a night like this. He wrapped his arms around her, ignoring the pull of his stitches, and rocked her gently back and forth as she sobbed, thin shoulders shaking in his grip. They clung to each other, like two lifeboats drifting alone on a vast, empty sea. His own grief tugged at him, and he wanted to break down and cry with her but he couldn’t. Becca was more important right now, and he had a job to do. He had to be strong for his sister, who despite her age was still so young in so many ways.

He held her, tears soaking into the front of his shirt, until the sobs eventually slowed and died off altogether as she leaned against him in exhaustion. “Can I sleep in here tonight?” Her words were muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

“Of course.”

He released her from the hug and she crawled over to the less-used side of the bed. Never letting go of the rabbit, she slipped under the sheet and turned her back to him. In the dark, he could just barely make out her profile as she curled her small frame into a ball.

“Hang on,” he said as an idea struck him.

His bare feet were silent on the carpet as he slid off the bed and walked over to the closet. It was pitch black inside and he had to rely on touch to find what he was looking for. After rooting around for a moment he found it, stuffed into the bottom of a box that was wedged into the corner of the top shelf.

She watched him curiously, eyes still shiny and wet, as he presented her unceremoniously with the thing he had found. It was a bear, older and even more loved than her rabbit. Whatever color it might have been at one point was indistinguishable, and the blue coat it wore was frayed and missing a button. One eye had been lost at some point and sewed back on crookedly. She took the toy gently and stroked the patchy fur on its head.

“I used to carry this thing everywhere when I was kid.”

She smiled at him, weak and watery. “But you always made fun of me for Rabbit.”

He shrugged. “Well, I was kind of a jerk growing up. Why don’t you keep him for the night?”

She hugged it to her, and for just a moment she wasn’t the fifteen year old young woman he knew, but the little sister that had toddled after him through their tiny Brooklyn apartment. “Thank you, Bucky,” she whispered. “Love you.”

“Love you too, Becs.”

She drifted off after that and her quiet, even breathing lulled Bucky into a restless sleep of his own.


	7. Chapter 7

He woke at dawn after hours of fitful sleep, his dreams unremembered except for an overwhelming and persistent fear of something dark and shadowy just around the corner. Becca was still asleep on the other side of the bed, dark hair in a tangle across the pillow and sheets twisted around her legs. Even in sleep she clung tightly to her rabbit and Bucky’s bear. Her face was placid, the little furrow of worry on her brow smoothed out in sleep.

Slipping out of bed, he did his best to stay as quiet as possible. He wanted to let Becca sleep as long as she could after everything that had happened yesterday. He padded on silent feet down the hallway, passing the door to the guest bedroom, which was shut tight despite the lack of running air conditioning. The sun wasn’t even fully up, but already it promised to be just as oppressively hot as the day before.

The bathroom was dark, no windows to let in any of the of morning’s light. He knew the layout well enough though, and managed to locate his toothbrush and tube of toothpaste with little difficulty. He turned the faucet on the sink but nothing happened. Frowning, he tried again, and then switched to the other one. Nothing.

_Damn._

The water lines had already run dry. He’d expected it to happen, but not this soon. Thank God they had the well at least, not to mention the countless bottles and containers Becca had filled the day before in the basement. He brushed his teeth dry and used a swig of mouthwash to rinse it out, mind already running full speed ahead as he contemplated the tasks before him for the day.

His next stop was the backyard to feed Winter and the chickens. It was nice, almost normal. With the light just barely peeking over the horizon, washing the yard with soft golden hues, and the sounds of the chickens pecking and Winter scarfing down her food, he could almost pretend nothing had happened. That it was just a regular day. Any moment now, his mom would appear at the back door, hair in a messy bun and a pencil stuck behind her ear. She’d lean out and yell at him to get back in the house for breakfast, and the worst problem he’d have to deal with all day would be what the hell he wanted to do with his life after he moved out.

In a way, he supposed he had gotten what he wanted. No one was really asking his future plans anymore.

He heard the creak of the screen door opening and closing, and then the heavy tread that told him it was Steve walking across the lawn. Bucky took one last deep breath of air, the scent of fresh grass in his nostrils and the sounds of bird calling to each in the trees in his ears, before he turned to face the day.

Steve was looking at him with a serious expression. “Water’s out.”

“Yeah, I noticed that too.”

“We got enough?”

“For now.” Bucky sighed. “But I think we need to start thinking long term here. We’ve got enough food and water, but this could go on for a long time. We need to be ready.”

Steve nodded in agreement. “I poked around the vegetable garden in the side yard while you were gone the other day. I could get it up and running. We could probably grow a good amount if we do it right.”

“I got no clue how to garden,” Bucky said ruefully. “The last time I house-sat for the nearest neighbors I killed all their plants.”

Steve snorted in amusement, but wisely chose not to comment. “I could do it. Mom had a real gardening phase when I was seventeen. I mean, it was only small things, you know, herbs on the windowsill and stuff cause we were in the apartment, but I helped. I figure it can’t be too different. Your mom keep any seeds?”

Bucky shrugged. “No idea, but I doubt it. She hasn’t touched that thing in years.”

Steve frowned. “Too bad.”

“It’s a good idea,” Bucky assured him. “We can get seeds. We need to go into town today anyway.”

Steve looked surprised and Bucky didn’t blame him. After all, he himself had insisted that they stay put after his experiences in town. But the thought that had been whispering at the back of his mind had grown louder and more insistent since he’d woken up. He’d tried to avoid it, but this was just one more thing that confirmed what their next plan of action needed to be.

“I know Natasha said to stay away,” he continued. “She said it was going to get really bad, but it’s only been twenty-four hours. It can’t be that bad yet. If we’re gonna go, now’s the time to do it.”

Steve didn’t hesitate, just nodded and said, “Okay. What do we need to get?” That kind of instant trust sent a wave of warmth right through him that Bucky quickly berated himself for. Of course, Steve would agree. He’d been following Bucky’s orders for the past day without complaint. Steve was just trying to make sure they all survived. It didn’t mean anything beyond that.

Bucky shook off the feeling and spoke, going over the list in his head as he did. “Gardening supplies I guess, and seeds. The kind they sell in those little packets in the store, would those work?” Steve nodded. “More salt, so we can keep preserving stuff. Any non-perishable food we can find. Cans, boxed stuff, powdered milk, that kind of thing.” He grimaced. “I really don’t want to leave Becca on her own here, but my arm is killing me and I can’t carry much on my own. I need you to come too.”

Steve seemed to think everything over, the look on his face calculating. “I think you’re right,” he finally agreed. “I’m not crazy about leaving her alone either, but it can’t be helped.”

“We’ll go after breakfast then.”

 

\---

 

They still had plenty of charcoal left for the grill, and Bucky managed a halfway decent breakfast of eggs and bacon and other things that probably wouldn’t last out the day without refrigeration. Best to eat those things while they could before they started in on the longer-lasting stuff. He made a mental note to look for more charcoal and lighter fluid while they were in town as well.

Becca’s eyes were red and raw from the night before when she finally joined them. It seemed she’d finally tucked away the stuffed animals, only allowing herself their comfort when no one besides Bucky would see. She seemed small somehow, tucked into herself and frail. Steve gave him a worried look when he saw her and Bucky tipped his head slightly to agree. _I’m worried about her too._

“Hey, Becca?” She lifted her head at Steve’s words. “Wanna help me with a project?”

She nodded. It wasn’t emphatic, lacking her usually joyful energy, and it was definitely nowhere near a smile, but at least it was something. She watched, quiet curiosity evident in her bloodshot eyes, as Steve went back into the house and then returned quickly to the porch with a pad of paper and several pencils.

“I’ve been thinking that I want to draw a comic,” Steve told her as he settled in next to her. “But, turns out, I’m terrible at dialogue and stuff. I was hoping you could help me?”

Even though the smile she gave him was small, it was still real, and Bucky’s chest felt fit to burst with the sudden torrent of emotions inside him. It was slow going at first, but soon Steve had Becca eagerly engaged in the project, both of them bent over the notepad, Becca dictating as Steve’s pencil scratched steadily back and forth on the page. They were so preoccupied that they didn’t even notice when Bucky slipped back into the house, and as he went he heard an honest-to-God laugh from Becca.

He could kiss Steve for making that happen.

And wow, did that thought set off all kinds of memories and visions in his head. He swallowed heavily and made his way down the steps into the basement, determinedly ignoring his own thoughts. Steve didn’t want to kiss him and he didn’t want to kiss Steve. It was the stress of the situation and the relief at Becca’s laughter that had driven him to even think about it in the first place.

All thoughts of kissing Steve vanished the second he opened the door of the deep freeze. Even with the airtight seal and the relative coolness of the basement there was already a puddle of water at the bottom nearly two inches tall. The insulin vials rested on the soaked towel, all of it floating on top of the remaining ice. It was still the right temperature, but he hadn’t expected the ice to go so fast. They’d managed to fill the freezer with ice, and only opened the door for brief snatches of time to retrieve insulin, but still it was melting at an alarming rate. Soon, it would be gone.

He grabbed what he needed and shut the door as tightly as he could before fleeing back up the stairs; as if he could leave all his fears down there in the dark if he only ran fast enough. When he came back up he paused at the sight before him. The sun’s gentle morning rays washed the porch in soft pink and gold hues, lighting up Steve’s blonde hair like a halo and highlighting the youthful glow of Becca’s face as she giggled at something Steve had said. Bucky felt like a monster for interrupting them, but they couldn’t stay that way forever. There were things to do.

Finally, he had to say something. The sky was growing steadily lighter, and he wanted to get this done with plenty of daylight left over for other tasks. “Steve,” he said, and when he looked up from the sketchpad, Bucky jerked his head over to the bikes leaning against the side of the house.

Becca looked between him and Steve in confusion as he handed her the insulin pen and disposable needle tip. “What’s going on? Did something else happen?” Panic colored her tone as her breath caught.

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean-“ Bucky dropped to a crouch in front of her and engulfed her in a hug. He could feel her breathing hard, her chest rising and falling in the cage of his arms as he assured her. “I’m sorry, Becs, I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m so sorry, I just didn’t think.”

He pulled back and grimaced at Steve as Becca surreptitiously swiped at the corners of her eyes. He felt like a jackass. He should’ve known that her nerves would be on edge after yesterday. “I’m sorry,” he told her again. “Nothing else has happened, but Steve and I need to go into town today. Are you going to be okay here by yourself?”

It spoke volumes that she didn’t even attempt a snarky comment or roll her eyes. Instead, she bit her lip, a nervous habit he hadn't seen from her in years. “I could go with you. To help.”

“No,” he said quickly. “We don’t know what it’s going to be like out there, and I don’t want to drag you into anything. I need you to stay here.”

“Then I’m going to go to Kate’s while you’re gone,” she declared.

_“No.”_ He wondered if this was how his parents had felt raising him. God, if he’d even caused them half the stress Becca was causing him he wasn’t sure how the hell they’d dealt with it. “You’re staying home, Becca, where it’s safe.”

“Kate’s house isn’t even that far!” she argued. The scared look of just a few seconds ago had been replaced with annoyance, but he’d take her arguing over crying any day.

“I don’t care how far it is, you’re staying home.”

“But I’m _worried_ about her and I can’t even text her. Please, Bucky, it won’t even take that long!”

“She’s fine,” Bucky said, trying to keep his growing irritation out of his voice. He understood how she felt but it didn’t change anything. “She’s got her mom and dad with her and their house is just like ours. They’ve got plenty of land and a root cellar and all the stuff we’ve got.”

“But-“

“I said no!” he said, perhaps a touch louder than he’d intended. Her mouth snapped shut and she narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m sorry for snapping at you, but I mean it. _Stay here._ We’ll be back before you know it, okay?”

She crossed her arms and refused to look him in the eye, instead staring a hole into the wooden floorboards of the porch.

“Fine, if you want to be that way, go ahead,” he said, standing up and dusting off his jeans. There was a tight ball of anxiety that had taken up residence in his stomach, and it was currently trying to displace his breakfast. He swallowed down the nausea as well as he could, telling himself that it had been necessary. He had to be harsh. She just didn’t understand what was at stake here, what could happen. He had to be harsh, he told himself as he wavered, uncertain.

But that didn’t really make him feel any better about it.

Steve, who had stood to the side looking immensely uncomfortable through the whole exchange, attempted to say something as soon as they were out of her hearing range. “Buck-“ he started as they mounted their bikes.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Bucky said harshly as he pushed on the kickstand with way more force than necessary. He immediately started pedaling, leaving Steve to catch up on his own.

 

\---

 

The ride to town seemed twice as long as it had been the day before. The renewed throbbing of his arm, his worry about Becca, and the alternating sense of guilt and annoyance for his own behavior- none of it made for a very relaxing trip.

He could feel Steve’s eyes on him constantly, and whenever he snuck a glance he could see that Steve’s lips were twisted in consternation, like it was taking everything in him not to say something. And knowing him, that was absolutely true. Bucky pushed doggedly onward, ignoring Steve all the while and hoping that eventually he would get over his do-gooder ways.

He should have known that was never going to happen.

Finally, at the edge of town, where rolling fields met the neatly trimmed grass of the suburbs, Bucky pulled to a sudden halt, startling Steve who only just managed to stop in enough time not to crash into him. If it wouldn’t have hurt him too, Bucky would have welcomed it. Served Steve right for following him so closely.

“Say it,” he said. Steve looked taken aback. “Go ahead and say it. I know you’ve been dying to lecture me the entire way here, so do it. Tell me what a shitty brother I am.”

“What? I don’t think-“

“You do. I can see it on your face.” Steve’s brows were furrowed. He looked stunned, and for some reason that made Bucky even angrier. “Oh, so now you choose not to say anything,” he snapped, turning his back on Steve once again. “Well fucking fine, whatever.”

“Do you _want_ me to yell at you or something?” Steve asked, confusion evident in his voice. “Because I’m not going to. I don’t think you’re being a bad brother at all. You’re just trying to keep her safe.”

“Yeah, sure,” Bucky muttered under his breath as he pushed off against the curb, getting the bike up to a steady speed. What the fuck was wrong with him? He was just doing what he had to do, what was right. Steve had even confirmed it. So why did he still feel like shit?

He heard Steve sigh heavily behind him as he pedaled to keep up. He was blissfully silent on the matter, some old childhood instinct probably warning him not to engage with Bucky when he was in such a combative mood.

Everything looked pretty much the same as it had the day before, but there was something in the air. Bucky could feel it; some sort of frenetic energy that hadn’t been there yesterday. He felt a shiver creep its way involuntarily down his spine, the taste of ash and mud in his mouth.

“Damn,” Steve said, head on a swivel, looking around wide-eyed as they rode through the eerily silent streets. The cars were still there, stopped seemingly at random, useless husks left where they had fallen. More than a few had windows busted out, their interiors picked clean. The sight was incongruous against the mild suburban backdrop, like a piece of theatrical set design put onstage in the wrong play by mistake.

There was smoke in the air, getting stronger the further they went, though Bucky couldn’t identify where it was coming from. “What do you think that’s from?” he asked, all earlier animosity forgotten.

Steve shrugged. “Bad wiring, maybe. Transformers that blew and sent off sparks. Who knows?”

They didn’t find the source of the smoke, although its smell lingered in their noses as they rode through the outskirts of town, swinging wide to avoid the center. Bucky remembered the near-riot at the police station, and that had been before most people had even realized what was going on. Besides the cars and the smoke, things out here remained relatively untouched, but he could only imagine how much worse it might have gotten downtown.

They saw it at the same time, Steve stamping on the brakes of his bike and Bucky skidding sideways to avoid a collision. There was a man lying flat on his back on the sidewalk, one arm twisted underneath him. He wasn’t breathing. Steve was off his bike in a flash, kneeling beside the man, two fingers feeling for a pulse at his neck. Bucky, however, was frozen, staring. The man’s eyes were open, cloudy and staring straight up into the sky. Bucky couldn’t look away.

“Is he…”

“Yeah,” Steve said grimly, sitting back. 

“What the- _how?_ ”

There were no obvious signs that anything had happened to this man. No bloody stab wounds or crushing blows to the head. Only smooth ashy-gray skin. There was just him, body splayed across the sidewalk, still in a suit and tie. He must have been on his way to work.

“I don’t know, but...” Steve said, gingerly inspecting him. He pulled the man’s collar down slightly and said, “Yup. I thought that might be the case.” He beckoned to Bucky, who finally laid his bike down in the grass and approached apprehensively. Steve tapped a small scar just below the man’s collarbone. “Pacemaker. It must have shorted out when everything else did. He would have been fine for a while, but once he had an arrhythmia with nothing to fix it…” He trailed off uncomfortably.

“Fuck.” It was all Bucky could manage, a strange, panicky lilt to his voice. He had been thinking all this time in such an abstract way. Yes, he knew objectively that the situation was grim, that people would panic and run out of food and water, but this? Seeing it- really seeing _death_ \- upfront and in his face, was something he could have never prepared himself for. He wasn’t sure how the hell Steve seemed so calm about it all.

Steve stared at the man- _the body_ \- and he bit his lip in thought. “It’s gonna start happening a lot.”

“What is?”

“I didn’t even think about it, but... How many people, even just in this town, have pacemakers? A couple hundred at least. Ten times that many in bigger cities. They all run on electronics.”

“So they’re all gonna die?”

Steve met his eyes, expression shuttered. “Think about all the medical technology we have now. How many people are alive who would have died years ago if we didn’t have pacemakers, internal defibrillators, that kind of thing? They’re going to start dying off soon. And anyone who relies on medication- asthmatics, schizophrenics-“ He started to say something else but clammed up at the last second.

“Diabetics,” Bucky finished for him in a flat voice.

“I didn’t mean-“

“Come on, we can’t waste all day here. Let’s get going.” Steve’s look was pained, but Bucky didn’t have the patience to console him. “Come on,” he said with more emphasis when Steve remained on his knees in the grass. 

“We can’t just leave him here,” Steve said, voice incredulous. 

“Someone from the city will take care of it.” He had no idea if that was true or not, but everything in him was screaming to get away from the gruesome reminder of his own mortality on the ground. 

“Who?” Steve asked, looking up and down the street. “He’s in the middle of the fuckin’ sidewalk. If they were going to take care of it, they’d’ve done it by now.”

“Well, what do you suggest we do? Take a break to go dig a grave on Mr. Eckland’s lawn?” Bucky asked harshly, gesturing at a nearby house.

Steve’s tone said he thought Bucky was being an asshole, even if his words didn’t. “We can at least get him off the sidewalk.”

“Fine,” Bucky agreed. A whirlwind of emotions spun inside him as he gripped the body under the arms. Steve picked up the man’s legs, and they both grunted with exertion as they took slow, unsteady steps through the nearest yard. Rigor mortis had set in and the limbs were stiff and impliable. As surreptitiously as he could, Bucky avoided putting weight on his left arm. If Steve noticed he didn’t say anything.

God, what the hell was he doing? He wasn’t this cold, callous person, so why was he acting like this? Survival, a voice inside his head whispered to him. But was that true? Did it count as survival if you lost who you were in the process?

They lowered the man gently down near a flower bed filled with bright yellow daisies. It was pretty: the blue cloudless sky and the soft grass, the cheerful nod of the flowers in the breeze. Bucky supposed it was as good a place as any. Steve closed the man’s sightless eyes and murmured a quick prayer. Bucky bowed his head out of respect, even though he hadn’t been to church in years. 

“Do you think we should try and find his family?” Steve asked. “We could check to see if he’s got a wallet.”

“How? Even if we knew his name, we’d have no way to look them up or contact them.” It was true enough, but Bucky didn’t mention the other thing; the sick, sloshing fear in his stomach that dreaded putting a name to the body on the ground. Let death remain as far away from them as possible while it could.

Steve didn’t look wholly convinced, but followed Bucky silently as they returned to their bikes, leaving the makeshift burial site behind them.

 

\---

 

Eventually, they had to leave the suburbs and venture closer to the more populated areas. There was a small grocery store that Bucky had shopped at more than once before, though it had shrunk in popularity after the town had gotten a Walmart two years back. The owners were nice though; a married couple, the Franks, who were getting on in years and always had a friendly word for their customers. The woman especially had an ear for neighborhood gossip, and she loved to chat with Bucky’s mom whenever they came to shop.

The changes appeared gradually. Mostly broken windows at first, both the buildings and the cars. Almost every shop was closed, metal grates pulled down tight. The ones that didn’t have security beyond a lock were trashed. When Bucky glanced inside he could see shelves that had been pulled down and cash registers hanging open. Broken glass glittered on the sidewalk, some of it from the smashed remnants of liquor bottles. Even the local diner hadn’t escaped unscathed, the front door hanging off its hinges.

They were silent as they approached the store, some unspoken agreement between them to remain as inconspicuous as possible. The parking lot was mostly empty, a few stalled out cars still in their parking spaces. Something instinctual told Bucky to hide their bikes, so he motioned over to Steve to follow him around the building, tucking their bikes behind a set of dumpsters buzzing with flies.

The sliding glass doors at the front of the store had been busted out. Glass crunched loudly underfoot as they approached warily, but there was no sound from the inside. The store appeared deserted, and the chaotic mess of the interior contrasted wildly with the heavy silence.

“Was it like this yesterday?” Steve asked in a half-whisper.

Bucky shook his head. “No, not even close. There were those people at the police station, but nothing like this.” The viciousness of it overwhelmed him. It had been just over twenty-four hours since everything had stopped and already people were losing their minds. He imagined the insane rush there must have been as people realized what was happening. The fallen shelves and food items scattered and crushed underfoot painted the picture for him; the story of normal people fighting like animals over scraps of food.

They’d come prepared with cloth bags to carry whatever they found. There wasn’t much left on the shelves, and what was there was in disarray. Still, they were able to find some useful things. There were still a few cans of vegetables, and a whole display of crackers that had been knocked aside, the packages hidden beneath the cheerily colored cardboard. There was an entire rack of the little packets of seeds they were looking for up front near the registers that hadn’t been touched. No one was thinking far enough ahead, only grabbing what they needed for the moment. Bucky stuffed his pockets with as many as he could grab.

They made quick work of the store, even grabbing some bruised but still entirely edible apples from the floor in the produce section. They avoided the freezer section, food already spoiling and reeking of rot.

High on the success of their trip, Bucky didn’t hear the footsteps behind him until it was too late. The cold press of metal sent a chill through him, even on this warm summer day. He froze as a voice whispered so close to his ear he could feel the person’s hot breath, “Tell your friend to stop and put his hands where I can see them if he doesn’t want your pretty brains all over the concrete.”

He thought in vain of the gun that Clint had given him, left on his bedside table, and the one under his parent’s bed. Both useless to him now. The thought of bringing them hadn’t even crossed his mind. _Stupid stupid stupid_ , he chanted in his head. _Fucking useless idiot, can’t protect Becca if you’re dead, now can you?_

“Steve,” he said, and something about the tone of his voice caught Steve’s attention immediately. He whipped around, eyes going wide when he saw the situation before him. Bucky still hadn’t seen the man with the gun, but another man caught his eye, standing just in his peripheral vision. Must’ve been the guy’s partner.

Steve slowly put his hands up, bag still dangling from one wrist. “We don’t want any trouble,” he said carefully.

“Do what we say and you won’t get any,” the voice replied. It was rough and gravely and still so close to Bucky that he could feel the air move across the fine hairs on the back of his neck.

“Okay,” Steve said. How he was so calm Bucky had no idea. “Okay.”

The second man had moved forward a bit and Bucky could see him more clearly now. He was young, he noted with surprise, not a man at all. Though he was tall, he couldn’t have been more than Becca’s age, a hint of teenage acne scarring his cheeks. He looked miserable, shifting his feet uncomfortably every couple of seconds.

Bucky could see it in Steve’s eyes that he noticed too. This kid was clearly just along for the ride, doing whatever the man with the gun had told him to do. He wondered if it was his kid, or maybe his brother. Either way, he hoped the first man burned in hell for subjecting a child to this.

“Hey,” Steve said gently, directing his words to the kid. “You don’t have to do this you know.”

“Shut up,” the man behind him said, pressing the gun more firmly into the base of Bucky’s neck. He wondered how it would feel when the bullet tore through his spine. “Don’t talk to him.”

Steve ignored him, and Bucky both loved and hated him for it. “My name is Steve,” he told the kid, who was watching him warily. “My friend’s name is Bucky. What’s yours?” The boy bit his lip. “It’s okay, you can tell me. And if you’d like, you can come with me and my friend. I can’t imagine that you like threatening people like this.”

“I said _shut up!_ ” The gun slammed into the back of Bucky’s neck, sending a jolt of pain through him as he stumbled. His knees hit the rough pavement, gravel digging into his skin, and all the while the cold press of metal never left. “Do you want me to kill your friend?”

Steve clamped his mouth shut, turning away from the kid.

“Hand me the bag,” the man demanded.

Steve lowered his arms slowly, carefully telegraphing every move in advance as he pulled the bag off his wrist. And then, without warning, he turned it into a throw, flinging the heavy bag directly at the man’s head.

The man bellowed and ducked to one side, the bag glancing off his shoulder instead of his face, and Bucky closed his eyes against the inevitable rain of items. They flew open again as a strong yank on his arm- the bad one- pulled him up and to his feet. The sudden pull on his stitches felt like fire under his skin, but then he was running, Steve still hanging onto him with a death grip.

As they ran the pain in his arm was dampened by the adrenaline to nothing more than a dull ache as he willed his body to go faster, the corner of the building only a few hundred yards away. A shot rang out behind them and a bit of brick exploded, chunks of it hitting Bucky in the chest. Another shot whistled by his right ear and the another struck the ground in front of them.

_He doesn’t even know how to shoot_ , Bucky realized, as another wildly off-target shot hit the side of the building right at the level of his eyes. _Just some idiot who got hold of a gun and thought he’d use it to get what he wants. To ensure his own survival even if it means killing someone else._

He didn’t have time to wax poetic about the brutality of humanity at the moment though. They rounded the corner and dived for the dumpsters where they’d stowed their bikes. They were still there, and Bucky said a quick prayer to whatever god had been responsible for that particular miracle. He could hear the guy yelling at them from somewhere behind them, but thankfully no more bullets came their way. Bucky was riding for all he was worth the second his feet hit the pedals of his bike. Beside him, Steve did the same. They didn’t speak once during their mad dash back to the edge of town, both conserving their breath.

As he pedaled for his life, Bucky couldn’t help but think of the kid they were leaving behind. Had he had any kind of choice in what he was doing? Bucky doubted it, and he felt the strong tug of hatred towards men like that pull at his heart. Right then and there he doubled down on his resolve that Becca would _never_ be put in a situation like the one they’d just been in. He’d die first before he let that happen.

By the time he felt comfortable enough to slow the bike down, Bucky’s thighs and calves burned with exhaustion. He’d lost his own grocery bag somewhere in all the chaos, but he was too tired to care. Sweat soaked the back of his shirt and dripped off the ends of his hair. The wet strands clung to the back of his neck, and he wished futilely that he’d thought to bring a hair tie. He’d thought about cutting it, now that showering regularly wasn’t guaranteed, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He’d grown his hair out back when he was a teenager, a vain attempt to separate himself from the boy who’d left his heart behind in Brooklyn, and over the years he’d grown fond of the style. 

Steve pulled his bike to a halt beside Bucky, who had already dismounted. They were on a one-laned country road, poorly maintained gravel lined with waist high fields that came up right to the edge of the concrete. Bucky stepped off the road and flopped backwards into the grass, staring at Steve, who looked like he’d been through the wringer. His blonde hair was plastered to his head and his face was bright red with exertion. His shirt clung to him, highlighting the shape of his chest, and Bucky carefully averted his gaze before Steve could notice him looking. He found himself instead looking at Steve’s face, and then, at almost the exact same time, they both burst into laughter. 

Bucky laughed until he hurt, each burst of air feeling ripped from his lungs, and his abdominal muscles clenched painfully. There was a hysterical edge to his laughter. He could hear it in Steve’s too, but neither of them seemed inclined to stop anytime soon. Clutching his stomach, Bucky struggled to breathe, sucking in great gulps of air whenever his muscles relaxed enough to allow it. 

Finally, he managed to wheeze out words. “We almost g-got shot!”

The sentiment was met by a renewed bellow of laughter from Steve, who looked a few seconds away from rolling on the ground like a damn cartoon character. “You had a gun to your head!” he gasped out.

Frenetic giggles bubbled up from his gut, tearing their way out of his throat. “I did!” Bucky agreed, tears of mirth running down his cheeks. 

“We- we could have died!” Steve said with a howl of laughter, and suddenly, even in the dead of summer, Bucky felt an icy chill creep over him. 

Bucky’s laughter faded to nothing but the occasional hiccup as the cold reality of what had just happened settled in. Fuck. He could have died, Steve could have died, and then what would have happened to Becca? She’d be all alone and scared at the house. How long would she wait before coming to see herself? And who would she have met? Unbidden, his mind supplied him the horrifying image of Becca in his place, the muzzle of a gun buried in her brown hair and her wide frightened eyes as she looked around for someone to save her. 

He was officially done laughing for the day. 

“Fuck,” he said, running his hands through his hair. The sweat was drying on his skin, leaving him cold and clammy despite the cheery sun. “ _Fuck._ ”

Steve nodded, his eyes clouded and expression far-away. “How’s your arm?”

“Hm?” Bucky blinked in surprise. With adrenaline coursing through him he hadn’t even noticed it hurting, aside from when Steve had first yanked him up by it. He cast his glance curiously down to his left arm. There was a red stain on the gauze, growing steadily by the minute. He offered his arm out to Steve in silence.

Steve grasped him arm delicately, grip firm and sure and surprisingly gentle as he peeled back a bit of the tape and peeked under the gauze. “I think I tore a few stitches out when I grabbed you,” he said, replacing the wrappings. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m pretty sure you saved my life back there.”

“Yeah, well,” Steve still looked grim, despite the reassurance. “Let’s go ahead and get out of here.”

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” Bucky muttered, getting to his feet. Suddenly, he wanted more than anything to be home.


	8. Chapter 8

Bucky was exhausted by the time they made it back to the house. Muscles he didn’t even know he had were screaming at him. _If nothing else_ , he thought, _there’s nothing like a national emergency to get you in shape._ Steve pulled to a stop beside him, a perfect reminder that he probably already ought to have _been_ in shape in the first place. He noted with satisfaction that at least Steve looked just as tired as he did.

“God, what I would give for an ice bath right now,” Steve groaned.

Bucky dug his knuckles into the meat of his thigh, attempting to rub out a particularly vicious cramp. “Please don’t talk about ice. It just makes me miss it more.” Unbidden, an image of the freezer in the basement popped into his mind, precious containers of insulin resting on an increasingly smaller pile of ice.

“Ice or not, I need a drink,” Steve said as he stretched his arms above his head. Bucky, who knew better by now, carefully averted his eyes so he wouldn’t see Steve’s shirt rise. He didn’t need that kind of temptation when he was already as bone-deep weary as he was.

They left their bikes leaning against the side of the house and made their way through the yard. Becca wasn’t where she’d been when they left, although Steve’s sketchpad was still sitting on the table. Bucky noted with a small smile that there was a considerable amount of new writing on the page, all in Becca’s flowery script.

“Thanks,” he said. Steve, who had already passed him and was halfway to the back door, turned and stared at him in surprise.

“For what?”

“For that.” Bucky tipped his head toward the half-drawn comic. “That was- you’re real good with her.” 

Steve shrugged and brushed it off. “Just thought it might cheer her up.”

Bucky was suddenly reminded that Steve could never take a compliment when they teenagers either. He had always been like that; selfless and thoughtful, and when confronted with thanks for his actions, he shrugged it off like it was nothing. Bucky had never understood how he could do that- still couldn’t if he was honest. But he’d long ago come to terms with the fact that he would always be more selfish than Steve. Maybe that’s why it had taken him so long to accept the end of their… whatever-it-had-been.

“Well still, thank you,” Bucky said quietly. “It made me happy, to see her smile like that. Seems like the only thing I do these days is upset her.”

Steve’s mouth twisted in dismay. “This whole thing is what’s upsetting her, Buck. Not you.”

Bucky’s laugh was hollow. “Sure doesn’t feel like it.”

Steve started to make a move toward him, but then seemed to think better of it, aborting the movement halfway through. The result was some sort of weird half-lunge, one arm hovering in the air, before he quickly righted himself. The air on the porch was thick with tension. If Bucky didn’t know any better, he would’ve guessed that Steve was about to hug him. His stomach knotted itself at the thought, and he honestly couldn’t say how he felt about it.

He was too tired to lie to himself like he normally might have done. Steve’s arms around him again- he had thought about it over and over after he’d moved away. At first it was good, a memory and a hope for the future that lit him up with giddy teenage love. But over time, as his texts and emails went unanswered, the thought had turned sour and he hated himself for still wanting what Steve clearly didn’t care to give. Eventually even that feeling had gone, and he had barely thought about Steve, until the day he’d seen him on Facebook, and even then he’d only reached out with the promise to himself that he would never let himself _want_ Steve Rogers ever again.

“Drink?” Steve interrupted his train of thought- for the better, probably. His voice sounded forced, an overly cheery tone. “I’ll just go grab some water.”

Bucky nodded dumbly and watched as Steve practically ran to get away from him. _Just great._ He hadn’t enjoyed this particular emotional rollercoaster as a teenager, and he sure wasn’t enjoying it now either.

His almost sobbed in relief when he sunk into one of the deck chairs. God, they still had things to do today. They needed more firewood, and Bucky needed to cook off the last of the produce before it went bad. And the garden-

 _Oh._ A tired, triumphant grin broke out over his face as he dug into both of his pockets and pulled out two large handfuls of seed packets. Today had been such an unmitigated disaster. He’d yelled at Becca, failed to bring home things they needed, almost gotten himself and Steve killed, but _this_ \- this was something good. He couldn’t wait to show Steve, to prove that he was more than just an angry, erratic fuck-up.

The door creaked open and Bucky held up the seeds in victory. “Look! Maybe today wasn’t such a dumpster fire after all.”

Steve didn’t acknowledge Bucky’s find at all. _Rude_ , Bucky thought. He knew he’d been a mess of emotions today, but Steve could at least lie to him a _little_. He was about to say so when Steve said, “Becca’s not in the house.”

Bucky’s heart stopped dead in his chest. He felt like he’d been plunged into freezing water, a iron vice squeezing his chest tight. The seed packets, which only moments ago had seemed like a crowning triumph, dropped carelessly from his hands as he shot out of his seat, covering the distance to the door in an instant. Steve was blocking it, and Bucky pushed him aside, wholly focused on one thing.

Becca.

It took him less than five minutes to tear apart the house in search of her; there were only so many places a nearly-fully grown person could hide, even one as skinny as she was. He could hear Steve behind him, speaking to him, but he didn’t care. Every cell in his body was fine-tuned to his task

Her bedroom was empty, useless phone still lying on the nightstand. She wasn’t in the bathroom either, or the living room or the kitchen. He threw open doors, moved furniture, opened every cabinet. Ridiculous places that even Winter wouldn’t hide in- _but he had to be sure_.

Winter.

It hit him like a ton of bricks. He hadn’t even realized, weary as he had been when they’d returned, but she hadn’t greeted them with her usual excited barking and slobbery kisses. She hadn’t been there at all.

He stopped dead in his tracks and Steve almost slammed into his back, stumbling to keep them from colliding at the last second. “Winter’s gone,” Bucky said, mind racing a thousand miles per minute, a million different scenarios running through his head. She had been taken, no that wasn’t right, she’d gotten sick and tried to walk to a hospital, she was in the woods with a broken ankle from chasing Winter who’d run away, she was-

“She’s going to Kate’s,” Bucky said, realization suddenly dawning on him. “She took Winter and she’s walking to Kate’s house. _God damnit!_ ”

He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, trying to stop the sudden wave of anger. Bright colors and flashes of light burst behind his closed eyelids as he pushed, fingers clenching. 

Steve was hovering anxiously behind him. “Are you sure?” he asked.

Bucky’s hands dropped and he pursed his lips in grim certainty. “I’m sure.” And he was. He’d known his sister all her life after all. It was stupid of him to think that a little thing like the end of the world would stop her from doing exactly what she wanted, even if gave her brother a fucking heart attack. There was nothing like the stubborn-minded selfishness of a teenager to put you in an early grave.

“I’m gonna kill her,” he said simply, and Steve rolled his eyes, some of the panic of before lessened but not entirely gone.

“Sure you are. Let’s go. We’ve got the bikes and she’s on foot. Shouldn’t be too hard to catch her.”

 

\---

 

The initial burst of relief and anger gave way once again to fear as they took off down the road, heading in the opposite direction as they had before. Sure, they knew where she was going, but anything could happen to her on the way there. Her destination was close, but still at least a solid half hour walk on foot. Kate lived a little more than three miles from the Barnes house, across open, flat terrain covered with fields of overgrown grass and withering crops of wheat that no one would come to collect now that the food industry had ground to a halt. The stalks merged into a golden blur as their bikes flew by, all traces of earlier fatigue forgotten. Bucky knew the road by heart; he had biked and driven and walked it a thousand times to drop Becca off and pick her up before she’d been deemed old enough to go by herself.

 _She’s fine_ , he told himself, keeping up a steady chant inside his head. _She’s fine she’s fine she’s fine._

Finally, nearly two miles down the road, he spotted something on the horizon. It slowly came into focus as the figure of a person, their back to them, long brown hair blowing lightly in the summer breeze. Beside them walked a dog, black and white coat shining in the sun and tail wagging happily.

The relief was so palpable that he almost sobbed. Did a little, if he was honest with himself. It felt like a latch had opened in his chest, finally allowing him to breathe freely. He granted himself precisely five seconds to bask in the overwhelming, all-consuming knowledge that Becca was safe, unhurt, and apparently- given the look on her face when she saw them- not even all that aware of the trouble she was in. Then the anger returned full-force.

“ _Rebecca Josephine Barnes!_ ”

She stopped in the middle of the road, Winter winding happily around her ankles and stared. “Bucky? What-“

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?!”

“I was just-“

“Are you fucking serious? I _told_ you to stay at home!”

“I-“

“Did you even think about what could have happened? Did you stop for _one fucking second_ -“

“I have Winter!” Her face ran through a wide range of emotions in the span of several seconds, from confused to worried to ashamed to annoyance, and she was now quickly edging in on anger. Just like Bucky, she couldn’t stand to be yelled at and would always respond in kind. Well that was fine with him. He was just getting started.

“Yeah, Becca? What the fuck is Winter gonna do when you get attacked? Or shot?”

There were angry tears standing out in the corners of her eyes now, fists clenched tightly at her sides. She was the perfect mirror image of her brother. “If you had just let me go with you in the first place-“

Steve stepped in then- literally _stepped in_ , using his body to stop the yelling like it was their fists. “Let’s just calm down,” he said reasonably, hands up in the universal gesture of peace. “I think we’re all just a little stressed, so how ‘bout we go back to the house and talk about it there.” He stressed the word ‘talk’ a little more than he needed to. _Fuck talking._ Bucky was _mad_.

“Shut the fuck up and stay out of it, Steve!” he snapped. He let go of the bike he’d been holding up and without the kickstand extended it clattered to the ground. Quickly, he turned his ire back to Becca. “I said no and I meant it! You never fucking listen to me!

“You don’t listen to _me_ either!” Becca shouted, voice shrill. “It’s like you don’t care what I have to say at all!”

“I _don’t_ care when it’s about something like this! You need to grow the fuck up, Becca, and realize the entire goddamn world doesn’t revolve around what _you_ want!”

He knew he was screaming now, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He couldn’t even think of the last time he’d truly raised his voice at her. Little snips out of annoyance aside, he wasn’t sure if he’d _ever_ yelled at her like this. It felt awful, and at the same time wonderfully, horribly cathartic, like ripping a huge weight off of his chest.

Steve tried again, louder and more insistent this time. “Bucky, stop.” He stopped just short of putting his hand on Bucky’s chest in a vain attempt to calm him down. He leaned closer and said quietly, “Don’t say something you’re gonna regret.”

“Fuck you, Steve,” Bucky seethed. “I said to stay the fuck out of it. You made it perfectly fucking clear that you didn’t want anything to do with me then, so you don’t get a goddamn say in how I talk to my sister now.”

Steve’s mouth folded tightly in a grim line as Bucky’s words seemed to echo through the air. There was a moment, just a moment, where everything seemed to stay suspended in time- Steve’s upset posture, Becca’s crossed arms and stamped foot, Winter’s tail tucked out of sight. And then it was gone, and with it Becca’s confident façade. Her face crumpled and Bucky felt like someone had just slid a knife between his ribs and straight into his heart. The only thought he had time for before tears started streaming down her face was, _Oh my god, what the fuck did I just do?_

He crossed the distance between them in a single step and gathered her into a hug. She was stiff in his grasp, arms unfolded now and held against her sides tightly, like she was trying not to let him touch her. He felt lower than low, smaller than a worm, too worthless even for the dirt underneath his shoe.

“Becca,” he said as she continued to cry. He laid a hand on the back her head and petted her hair like she was a small child as she finally relented and went loose and boneless in his arms. “Becca, I’m sorry. You just scared me so much. I thought something had happened to you. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”

Her voice was muffled by his shirt. “I didn’t mean to,” she sniffled. “I was just worried about Kate and you guys were gone and I felt so useless sitting at home like a little kid.”

“You’re not useless,” he assured her. “I know you were trying to do what you thought was right, but I just need you to _listen_ to me from now on. Please?”

He could feel her nod, her hair tickling his chin, and he clutched her tighter. They stayed that way for a long time before he released her from the hug, her face shiny with tears that she quickly wiped away.

“Hey,” he said, reaching out and tipping her face up with a finger under her chin. Tears still clung to her lashes. “I’m sorry,” he repeated again. “I know I’ve been getting angry at you lately. I’m gonna work really hard to trust you and to not do that anymore, but I need you to help me, okay?”

She nodded and sniffled loudly, but her expression was markedly less miserable. He withdrew his hand and then turned slowly to face Steve, stomach already clenching at the thought of what Steve might say. Well, whatever it was, Bucky deserved it. He was stressed and upset and angry, and he’d taken it out on the only two people in the world who understood. Becca had forgiven him, but she was young and he was her big brother. Steve had no such reasons to do so.

Would he leave? The thought hurt like a knife in his chest. If he wouldn’t stay for Bucky, then maybe he would stay for Becca. Bucky hoped to God he would. _Please_ , he thought desperately, _don’t let Becca lose someone else just because I was too stupid to control myself._

Steve was watching him, face impassive and blank, eyes betraying nothing about how he was feeling. Even though they were almost the same height, Bucky felt small in his presence, like a child who’d been caught mouthing off.

“Steve,” he started hesitantly. He couldn’t mess this up. It was too important. “I’m sorry.” He should record himself saying that. Might save some time in the future. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you either. You were just trying to help.”

“It’s fine-“ he started, but Bucky cut him off. The words came out in a rush, tumbling over each other in his haste to say it.

“Please don’t leave. I know I’ve been an asshole and you probably don’t want anything to do with me. I wouldn’t want anything to do with me either, but we-“

Steve’s face had softened in a familiar expression, all traces of hardness gone. Bucky resisted the sudden urge to spring forward and hug him. “I’m not gonna _leave_.” He said it with the same tone as if Bucky had suggested he put on a wig and join the circus. “But I do accept the apology. You _are_ kind of an asshole.” He winked at Becca over Bucky’s shoulder, and the first smile he’d seen since breakfast crept slowly across her face.

_But we need you._

That’s what he’d been about to say, before Steve had interrupted him. He managed a grin for Becca’s sake and laughed along with them in good humor as Becca and Steve started taking turns taking cracks at him. His body was physically there, but his mind was a million miles away as he turned the thought over and over in his mind, inspecting it from every angle. But no matter what way he looked at it, one glaring truth remained.

More than anything, _he needed Steve_.

 _When had that happened_ , he thought faintly. It had been less than three days since Steve had arrived, and less than forty-eight hours since the world had gone to shit. When the hell had Steve Rogers had time to worm back in under Bucky’s skin like he had never left in the first place?

“So what now?” Steve asked. Bucky sighed. There’d be time to ponder the endless mysteries of Steve fucking Rogers later.

“Back to the house, both of you,” he said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of home. “Becs, you take the bike and help Steve put together dinner when you get home.”

“You’re not coming with us?” she asked.

He shook his head and smiled at her. “I’m gonna walk to Kate’s and check on her and her parents. I’ll meet you back at the house.”

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

Steve shifted from one foot to the other, and the look on his face took Bucky by surprise. So far Steve had been pretty quiet with his own opinions, letting Bucky take the lead on almost everything and only giving voice to his thoughts when tensions ran high enough to warrant it. But now he looked pained, as though holding back his words was difficult.

“Steve?”

“You shouldn’t go by yourself.” The words came out fast. Maybe Steve had been holding back more than he’d thought.

“I’ll be fine,” he assured him. “It’s not like-“ He glanced quickly at Becca, who was watching him curiously, and amended what he’d been about to say, “-earlier. This is a secluded area. The chances of me running into anyone are pretty low.”

Steve glanced at Becca too and seemed to choose his words carefully. “Yeah, well, shit happens when you least expect it.”

“I know, and I’ll be careful, but I need you to take Becca home.”

Steve looked like he wanted to argue, but Becca did it for him. “I can go by myself.” There was none of her usual stubbornness in the statement, just simple truth. “I’ll go straight home and lock the door. And I’ll take Winter with me.” At her feet Winter whined, happy to be included in the conversation.

Now it was Bucky who wanted to protest, but the look on her face was earnest. Why were they doing this to him? Why was _Steve_ doing this to him? He was an adult, and far more equipped to handle himself than Becca. It wasn’t him who needed the protection. He bit his lip. He was loathe to let her go anywhere on her own, not after what had happened today, but he had also promised that he would work on trusting her. He just really hadn’t counted on that promise being put to the test so soon.

“I promise, Bucky. I’ll be super careful and go as fast as I can.”

There was blood on his lip from biting so hard, and he swiped it away with his tongue, making a face at the bitter, metallic tang of it. He clenched his eyes shut, but finally he had to say it. “Okay. Okay, you can go by yourself, but please, _please_ , be careful, Becs.”

“I will,” she said solemnly, and then surprised him as she launched herself forward to wrap her arms around him in a rib-crushing hug.

“Be safe,” he demanded after he managed to detach her from around his waist.

She hugged Steve too and whispered something in his ear. Bucky eyed the two of them suspiciously, but didn’t question it. It was good that they were getting along, and there were worse people in the world she could be sharing secrets with than Steve.

They stood and watched until she’d disappeared far enough down the road that he could no longer make out her figure. Winter padded beside her faithfully, and Bucky’s heart clenched in his chest. He was already worried, though it was slightly less than before. Still, he couldn’t keep the thoughts of ‘what if’ out of his head completely.

“I can practically _hear_ you worrying from over here,” Steve said, eyes still watching the road. “She’ll be fine. I would’ve gone with her if I’d’ve thought anything else, but this area is deserted.”

Bucky gave him a sharp look. “If it’s deserted, than what was the problem with me going by myself?”

Steve grimaced. “Today’s been… a lot. It hasn’t hit you yet, hell it hasn’t even hit me, but when it does we’re both gonna crash, and I don’t want you alone when it happens.”

Bucky’s mouth clamped shut. He had no idea how to respond to that. His first instinct was to argue, but he’d seen firsthand how far following his instincts had gotten him.

“Besides,” Steve added. “I’m still worried about that arm.”

Bucky glanced idly at it. The fresh bleeding had stopped sometime in the last hour or two, but the tape and gauze were coming unstuck, covered with sweat and dirt and god-knows-what-else. “Doesn’t even hurt,” he lied.

“Sure,” Steve said, rolling his eyes. “You’ll be back to those handstands any day now.

Bucky flipped him off and Steve- the bastard- just laughed and pedaled away, leaving Bucky to catch up.

 

\---

 

Becca had covered an impressive amount of ground on foot before they had caught up with her, and there was little less than a mile to go to reach their destination. The Bishops were good people, what Bucky’s dad called ‘salt of the earth’. They’d lived here all their lives, and Kate had been raised as an only child in the middle of nowhere. To say she’d been ecstatic to learn about a girl her age moving in down the road would be an understatement. Bucky could still remember a little blonde girl nearly bowling him over in the doorway in an effort to meet her new best friend.

From that moment on Becca and Kate had been inseparable. Sharing dolls and candy when they were little, and clothes and gossip as they grew up. Bucky liked Kate well enough, but had never developed the kind of relationship Steve had forged with Becca. He had never adopted Kate as a sibling of his own.

“Um,” Steve said, and Bucky snapped his eyes forward. Something was wrong. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what, but it was something. Bucky shook his head, trying to clear the steadily growing fog of fatigue. He’d been through so much today; it still took him several long moments to figure it out, and even then he didn’t understand it all at first.

The house was _gone_. He wondered briefly if he was so tired that he’d taken them to the wrong place, but there was the oak tree that lightning had split nearly in two during a thunderstorm when he was eighteen. And there was the pitted driveway that Mrs Bishop had been after her husband to fix for years, and further away was the swingset where Becca had attempted a jump at ten years old and broken her wrist.

It was then that a familiar smell washed over him and he felt his stomach drop to his feet.

_Smoke._

Wordlessly, he stepped off his bike and lay it down, Steve following close behind him. He saw upon closer inspection that he’d been right. The house _was_ gone, but for once being right didn’t bring him any kind of satisfaction.

The only part of the house that remained intact was the concrete foundation; everything else was in charred ruins. Bucky could see the fallen brick and burnt beams that outlined where the walls had been. Some of the wreckage was still smoking slightly, every gentle breeze blowing ash in all directions. Bucky tried to remember the layout of the house. If he was correct then it looked like the fire had started in the kitchen, but there was nothing recognizable there anymore, just a mound of blackened debris.

He stood frozen to the spot while Steve ventured slowly, crossing gingerly over the former threshold to poke around the ruins. Bucky followed numbly after.

“Careful,” Steve warned him, “some of this stuff is still smoldering.”

“What the hell happened?”

Steve paused in his search, face grim. “Honestly, I’m surprised we haven’t seen _more_ fires. Think of all the things that shorted out. At least some of those had to have had faulty wires. All it would take is one spark and…” He gestured around.

“Fuck,” Bucky whispered. He was still slightly in shock he supposed, and so, so tired.

“Damnit!”

His eyes darted quickly over to Steve, who was crouched down and lifting something that looked like it might have once been part of a table. He was staring intently at something on the ground, swearing under his breath.

“What is it?” Bucky asked, picking his way carefully over, avoiding the approximate area where he remembered the stairs to the basement being.

Steve gently laid the burnt piece of wood back down but continued to stare. “It’s- a person. Or, used to be.”

Bucky heard Steve’s words, felt them pass over and around and under him, but comprehension wouldn’t come. “What?” he said dumbly. 

“Someone didn’t make it.”

And there it was. _Someone._ But not just anyone- someone he knew. Someone he’d had a conversation with, laughed with, shared a meal with. That was their body lying below a pile of debris, like garbage that someone had tossed out into the street. It wasn’t his first body; hell, it wasn’t even his first body _today_ , but it was different somehow. He had _known_ them and they were _right there_ and it wasn’t like the nameless man on the street and it wasn’t like his parents who could still have been in Europe if he imagined hard enough. It wasn’t like anything he’d ever- and how did people _do_ this, how had Steve done it, his mother had _died_ and Bucky hadn’t even been there and-

He dug his fingernails into his palm until they bit deep, bloody little crescents into his skin. He couldn’t go down that path. Not now, not ever, not if he wanted to survive. 

“Just one?” he asked, his voice strangled, even to his own ears.

Steve nodded and stood, looking around with a sharp expression in his eyes. What he was looking for, Bucky had no idea. How did you begin to guess at where there might be a dead body? It was never something he’d ever had to consider before.

Steve must have found whatever clue he needed, because before long he was stepping across the ruins of the house to what had once been the master bedroom, if Bucky’s memory was correct. It took him only a few seconds to find the second body buried under unidentifiable shards of wood and fallen bricks.

Bucky didn’t wait for Steve to look for the last one. Like a magnet, he was drawn to it. He knew he’d find it even before he began digging through the remnants. The soot stained his hands black, and the dust and ash in the air made him choke. He brushed aside something that crumbled into the dirt the second he touched and there-

Kate was there, exactly where he knew he’d find her, in the burned-out shell of her bedroom. He hoped she’d been sleeping, prayed to God that it had been the smoke that killed her before the fire had had a chance. He could feel Steve’s eyes burning a hole into the back of his head, but he said nothing. After a moment he stood, brushed off the worst of the grime from his jeans, walked over the wreckage until he reached the grass, and promptly vomited everything that was left in his stomach from breakfast.

He vomited again, his hair hanging down in his eyes. A gentle hand gathered up the long strands and held them away as he retched until there was nothing left but bile. He stayed like that a long time, bent over in the grass next to the ruined house, bile burning his throat and tears burning his eyes. Finally, he straightened up slowly, wiping the back of one hand over his mouth. Steve released his hold on Bucky’s hair, but kept a comforting hand on his back.

He turned to Steve, searching, desperate. “How the hell do I tell her?” he whispered.

“You don’t.”

His head was so foggy. It was hard to think. “What?”

“ _We_ will tell her.” Steve’s voice was quiet but sure. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Bucky’s mouth opened and closed as he searched for words that wouldn’t come. He had to tell her, he knew he did, but…

What good would it do? It wasn’t like there was anything to be done. They couldn’t change a thing, and tears meant nothing to the dead. It might even be a kindness, to let her live for a while without the knowledge of her friend’s death. The thought of bringing her more bad news, of telling her someone else she loved was gone, made his stomach clench painfully.

He was such a _fucking_ coward. Here it was, not even an hour after he had made a promise to be better to her, and already all he could think of were ways to avoid it. He didn’t want _this_ , didn’t want any of it, but it was his to deal with all the same. It had been less than forty eight hours, but it felt more like forty five years had passed, each and every one of them sitting on his shoulders, pushing him down until his legs gave out and the weight ground him into dust.

“It’s not _fair_ ,” he said bitterly.

Steve’s eyes were soft and sad as he sighed. “Nothing about any of this is fair.”

They were standing so close that Bucky could see the sunlight glint off the little flecks of green and gold in his blue eyes. Funny. The years had turned his memory of Steve’s eyes muddy and gray. But now, standing here, looking into the real thing, he couldn’t fathom how he had possibly forgotten them.

He looked away quickly. Not the right time for those kind of thoughts. He had Becca to think about.

 _But when?_ something that sounded uncomfortably like his own voice whispered in the back of his mind.

When was the right time? He clamped his throat down on the small, hysterical laugh that threatened to bubble out of him. Time was exactly the problem here wasn’t it? It sped past him like a runaway train, leaving him stumbling and disoriented in its wake. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t possibly hope to even slow it down, even though every second that ticked by brought the insulin down in the basement one step closer to being useless. Time would kill Becca as surely as the disease would, and he was powerless to stop either. So when was the right time to think about himself?

 

\---

 

Bucky watched her from his seat at the top of the porch. Becca was in the spot that had become unofficially hers. He could just see the top of her head, her face buried in Winter’s fur. The setting sun painted the sky around them with bold, beautiful brushstrokes of pink and purple and gold. The scenery was all wrong; a beautiful outdoor scene playing backdrop to a hideous reality. It didn’t seem fair that such a peaceful place should be witness to such grief. But like Steve had said earlier, nothing about any of this was fair.

Her shoulders were still. She wasn’t crying anymore, but somehow that was worse. Tears he could wipe away but this… Bucky could do nothing against that blank emptiness. 

The wooden planks creaked behind him, and then there was a hesitant hand on his shoulder that became more sure and steady when he didn’t shrug it away. The hand gave a reassuring squeeze, and then Steve sat next to him, the old steps groaning heavily in protest at their combined weight. He handed Bucky a bowl of soup and a spoon. Working on autopilot, he managed to down three or four spoonfuls before he had to hand the rest back over to Steve. His stomach writhed, like a massive knot of worms all trying desperately to escape. He was loathe to waste any food, but couldn’t force anymore down his throat without fear it would immediately come back up. He hoped Steve would eat the rest.

“Has she moved at all?” Steve asked quietly.

“No. But at least it looks like she’s stopped crying.”

Steve sighed heavily. “That’s something, I guess.”

“Yeah. Steve?”

“Hmm?” Steve looked at him, hand halfway to his mouth, little chunks of vegetable floating in broth balanced precariously on the spoon.

“Thanks. For helping. I don’t think-“ He paused for a moment and then amended the thought. “I _know_ I wouldn’t have been able to do it by myself.”

Steve swallowed his spoonful of soup and frowned. “We’re in this together. I know it probably wasn’t what you wanted but-“ and now he gave Bucky a small, tight smile, “-I’m with you ‘til the end of the line on this one, pal.”

“I don’t-“ Bucky began, and then fell silent. His first instinct was to argue, to tell Steve that of course he wanted him here. He swallowed heavily as he felt hot shame creep beneath his skin. He _hadn’t_ wanted Steve here at all, had he? He remembered vividly their first interactions. It seemed like years ago now, but he had spent the entire time regretting his choice to invite Steve out for a visit. And after that, how much of their time together had he spent making snide comments, arguing, outright yelling at him? No wonder Steve thought he wasn’t wanted.

“I’m sorry,” he said instead, and the way Steve’s eyebrows shot up was almost comical. “I was an asshole. Don’t argue,” he said as Steve opened his mouth. He snapped it shut quickly and Bucky continued, “I was- I _am_ an asshole. Most of the time. Always have been. But having you around has been…I don’t think I would have made it without you here.”

Steve was still clutching the bowl of soup in his hands, but he seemed to have forgotten it was there. Bucky eyes flicked down to watch the spoon sink into the liquid and then back up to Steve’s face, which seemed to be going through an impressive range of emotions. Finally it seemed to land on something that seemed vaguely pained.

“Buck,” he said, “you don’t have to-“

“I do,” Bucky said, cutting him off. Steve looked like he was about to argue again and Bucky rolled his eyes, bumping his shoulder up against Steve’s and sending some soup sloshing over the side of the bowl. “Just take the apology, punk. Don’t make it weird.”

“Jerk,” Steve muttered, but he smiled as he did it.

“Is that soup?” said a small voice, and both of them jerked their heads up in surprise.

Becca was standing at the bottom of the steps, Winter sitting obediently by her side. Her eyes were red from crying but her face was dry.

“Becs!” Bucky shot up from his seat. “You hungry? I’ll go get you some from the kitchen, okay? Just hold tight, I’ll be right back.” He was babbling, tongue tripping over the words in his haste to make sure she was all right. He couldn’t do anything about Kate or their parents or anything else that was going on in the world right now, but soup? That he could manage. She smiled at him, small and hesitant, but a smile all the same.

He turned to go but Steve caught his hand, yanking him back. “Don’t worry about it,” Steve said and then looked at Becca, holding out the bowl of soup he had been nursing for the past half hour. “Take this. Neither of us are going to eat it.”

Steve pulled Bucky back down in his seat at the same time that he patted at the spot between them, motioning for Becca to sit. She settled in, sandwiched between him and Steve. She seemed so small there, her thin shoulders against theirs, and wisps of hair escaping her ponytail to highlight the sharp angle of her cheekbones. Bucky allowed himself a second to indulge in the comfort of the three of them sitting close together, sheltered against the world, even if only for a brief moment.

A nice summer breeze ruffled his hair as the sun slipped further down the horizon. In the woods at the edge of the property birds called to each other among the rustling leaves. Winter lay across the step below them, tail wagging and pink tongue lolling out of her mouth as Bucky scratched idly behind her soft ears. _This_ , he thought. This is what it was all for; all the heartache and pain and struggle. This was what he was fighting for. He couldn’t fix the world, couldn’t even really hope to understand what had happened to it in the first place, but _this_ \- this small plot of land in the middle of nowhere, Indiana, with a teenage girl and a dog and a maybe-once-again best friend-

This he could protect.


	9. Chapter 9

They slept in the living that night, all three of them, dragging the cushions off the couch and piling them up in the middle of the floor like they were children back in Brooklyn. Back then, Becca had always begged Bucky and Steve to allow her to play with them during sleepovers, and Bucky had always refused. Steve had been nicer about it, but Bucky had had no such qualms. Now, as he gathered an armful of blankets to spread across the floor along with the cushions, he chuckled at the memory.

Becca fell asleep quickly, worn out from the eventful day. Her breathing was light, chest rising and falling beneath the blanket. Bucky watched as Steve tucked the blanket in more securely around her and then brushed a lock of fallen hair back from her face. Something in Bucky’s gut fluttered at the sight, but he resolutely ignored it. At Becca’s feet, Winter lay splayed out on her side, snuffling and twitching her paws in her sleep. Bucky was tired too, exhausted really, but there was still one more thing he had to do tonight. Something that couldn’t wait.

He waited until it had been several minutes since Becca had last stirred and then, satisfied that she was well and truly out, he motioned with his head for Steve to follow him out of the room. The look on Steve’s face was curious, but he did what Bucky asked all the same. He led Steve through the dark, quiet hall and into his parent’s bedroom, closing the door firmly behind them. Steve’s look of curiosity turned to one of confusion as Bucky knelt down and reached under the bed, pulling out a black case. It was only when Bucky finally undid the lock and pulled out the gun that Steve’s eyes widened in understanding.

“You should take this,” Bucky said, holding out the gun and presenting it grip first to Steve.

Steve glanced between the dark metal and Bucky’s face several times. The moonlight streaming in through the blinds on the window cast his face in a harsh chiaroscuro. Finally, after several agonizing minutes had gone by, he gingerly picked up the gun from Bucky’s outstretched hand. “What about you?” he finally asked. Bucky couldn’t help but notice the way Steve held the gun, like he was scared it might go off at any moment.

“The safety’s on,” he told Steve, who nevertheless failed to regard the gun with any less suspicion than before. “And I’ve got one,” he added as he reached to pull the gun out of his waistband. He’d retrieved it off his bedside table the second they’d gotten home, before telling Becca about Kate, before even washing the soot of the burned house off his skin. He had made a promise to himself on their wild dash away from their would-be murderers; he would never be caught in that kind of situation again without something to protect himself.

Steve stared down at the weapon in his hand and then at the one in Bucky’s, his mouth twisted in displeasure. “This is really happening, isn’t it?”

Bucky snorted in amusement. Couldn’t help himself. “What was your first clue?”

Steve ignored his sarcasm. “Where did you get them?”

Bucky tucked the pistol back out of sight, hoping its disappearance would ease Steve’s discomfort a little. “That one,” he said, indicating the gun Steve still held loosely in his grip, “was Dad’s. He kept it for home defense. Least that’s what he said. Not like he ever had any cause to use it out here. And Clint gave me the other one.”

“Clint?”

“The guy who drove the cab. Remember him? He and his girlfriend are some of my best friends.” He choked unexpectedly on the last few words. He hadn’t thought about Clint and Natasha again- save for the advice they had given him- since this whole thing had started. Where were they? Were they okay? Had they even survived? The thought that maybe they hadn’t made him feel nauseous, and he had already vomited more than enough for one day.

“He told me I’d be glad to have it,” he soldiered on, ignoring the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach and the acid in the back of his throat. “Once things got worse. Once people started to realize how fucked we all are. They knew what was going to happen. Tried to warn me.” He thought bitterly of the man outside the grocery store. “Even if I didn’t understand it at the time.”

Somehow Steve knew what he was thinking without him having to say it. “That kid today,” he said quietly. “He couldn’t have been more than fourteen.” He paused for a long moment, and when he continued it was like he was having to painfully force out each and every word. “Buck… I was- When I saw that, that man hold a gun against your head I- and that kid was right there and I…I would have hurt him. To save you.” He took a deep, shuddery breath. Bucky could just see the minute trembling of his hands. “He was just a kid and I would have- to save you, I would’ve-“

“You were panicked. You were acting on instinct and you _still_ managed to get us out of there without hurting anyone.”

“But I _would have_ ,” Steve insisted, like that changed anything.

“No one thinks you _wanted_ to. It’s survival, Steve. Plain and simple.”

“Is it?” Steve’s quiet voice resonated in the silent room. “Is it survival if you lose who you are in the process?”

Bucky didn’t have an answer for that, but it didn’t seem like Steve had been expecting one anyway. After a while, Steve tightened his grip on the gun and tucked it firmly beneath his belt. He seemed relieved to at least have it out sight, if not out of mind.

Becca and Winter were still asleep when they crept back into the living room, although the dog had inched closer and closer until she was in the crook of Becca’s arm, the girl curled around her like a question mark. Bucky lay down on Winter’s other side and after a moment of hesitation, Steve joined him. His blue eyes shone bright in the dark and Bucky had to work hard this time to tamp down the little _taptaptap_ that his heart danced out against his ribcage.

He turned decisively onto his side, back to Steve, and buried his face in Winter’s fur. The coarse strands tickled his nose and her warmth relaxed him enough that when Steve’s hand slipped into his, he didn’t refuse it. He just gripped it hard and let himself fall into a dreamless sleep.

 

\---

 

Before he knew it, a week had passed, and then another. The days slid by like flotsam in a stream winding its way down to the ocean, slipping by him in small bits and pieces. They didn’t leave the house again, save for the daily perimeter walks that he and Steve had taken to conducting several times a day. There was no need to go into town; anything they might have gained there wasn’t worth the chaos that such a trip would bring.

Instead, they focused their energies towards shoring up their own living situation. Becca, who was the most bothered of the three of them by the lack of daily showering, made it her mission to at least make baths possible again by using the well water. Bucky was in the root cellar constantly, checking and rechecking their food supply and figuring out how best to ration it. The good news there was that they were nowhere near to running out, especially when combined with the meat they’d preserved and Steve’s handiness in the vegetable garden. Steve had spent almost every day on his hands and knees in the garden, turning it from a lowly patch of dirt into something that might one day sustain actual, living plants.

They all worked hard, the sun burnishing their skin to a golden glow. Freckles stood out on Becca’s cheeks as she got tanner, and Steve’s blonde hair seemed to glow brighter every day. They all started to get stronger, able to work longer and harder each passing day. Even Becca was putting some extra muscle on her scrawny arms. They rose with the sun each morning and retired with its passing, moving into the living room or out onto the porch to talk and joke and plan. They were, if not happy, at least as content as could be given the situation.

The sun was hanging low in the sky, only an hour or two left before it slipped down under the horizon to mark another day passed. Bucky was crouched down in the grass at the edge of the treeline down at the end of the property, keeping a sharp eye out as Becca carefully aimed the pistol and fired. The shot went wild, sending up a spray of dirt at least six feet from the row of old cans that they’d set up earlier in the day. Beside her, Steve wasn’t faring much better, having knocked down only one out of the six cans of his own.

It had been only a week after he’d given Steve the gun that Bucky had had the thought to ask whether or not Steve knew how to use it. The answer he had gotten had been suspiciously circumspect, so he’d hauled Steve out to the edge of the property to test exactly how much he knew about shooting.

The answer, as it turned out, had been absolutely _nothing_.

After carefully weighing the risks of using precious ammo vs the risks of letting an untrained Steve loose with a gun in an emergency, Bucky had decided it was in everyone’s best interest to give up a few rounds every day for some lessons. At the last minute, he’d decided Becca should learn too. The thought of her having to use a gun to defend herself twisted his stomach into knots, but he’d learned his lesson already about being unprepared.

“I’m terrible,” Becca groaned, as another shot missed the cans by a wide margin. As if sensing her distress, Winter whined from where they’d tied her up a good distance back, far out of range of any stray bullets.

“You’re not terrible. You’ve just never done this before,” Bucky assured her, eyeing the targets. Then he amended his statement. “Steve’s terrible.”

Beside him, Steve pulled out one earplug, frowning. “I heard that. And it’s not bad aim. It’s passive resistance.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and clapped Steve on the shoulder. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Becca lined up her body for another shot and Bucky gently repositioned her. “Solid footing,” he reminded her, kicking at her foot. “And stop locking your arm like that. You’re gonna hurt yourself with the recoil.” Right before he stepped away he snapped the ear protectors back down over his ears, wincing when the movement jarred his arm painfully.

“Do I have to wear these?” she complained. “They pinch.”

“Yeah, well,” Bucky said, speaking loudly so she could hear him over the muffling quality of the ear protectors, “you’ll thank me when you’re not deaf at the ripe old age of twenty-five.”

 _If she makes it to twenty-five_ , a voice inside him whispered and he clamped down so hard and so suddenly on that thought that he to stop and shake his head like he could physically clear the thought away.

They shot off a few more rounds each, and he smiled when Becca’s last two shots managed to find their way to a target. Steve’s, as usual, didn’t even come close. Bucky was beginning to think that even Winter might be better suited for shooting than Steve.

“Clean up and then we’re done for the day,” he said, flopping down into the soft grass. Immediately, Steve began dismantling his gun, pulling the pieces apart and wiping them down exactly like Bucky had shown him. It took him less than two minutes to strip, clean, and reassemble the gun. It was amazing how good he was at this part when he was so _bad_ at the rest of it. Becca was still struggling to take hers apart when Steve walked over and sat down beside him.

“I can’t do it Bucky,” Becca called to him in frustration.

“That doesn’t sound like a very can-do attitude, Becca,” he replied, voice overly sweet. She glared at him and muttered under her breath as she continued to struggle with her task.

Steve started to stand but Bucky grabbed ahold of his jeans and yanked him back down. “Don’t go help her,” he said. “She needs to learn how to do it herself, and she won’t if we keep holding her hand every time she gets a little frustrated.” He said it like it was an easy thing, even though it had been one of the hardest lessons he’d learned in the last few weeks. “You’re getting quick at it,” he remarked.

Steve winked and then stretched out beside Bucky, hands folded beneath his head as a pillow. “What can I say? I’m good with my hands.”

Bucky snorted in amusement. “They teach those terrible lines at school?”

“Among other things.”

Bucky sat back and watched Becca with amusement as she fumbled and cursed with the pieces of the gun. It couldn’t go off in that form so he wasn’t keeping the vigilant watch over her that he normally would. After a moment more of watching, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the day wash over him. He’d give her another five minutes before he rescued her.

Beside him Steve shifted, getting more comfortable on the grassy ground. Somewhere in the trees a bird shrieked as a small animal crashed through the underbrush. “So why med school?”

“Hmm?”

Bucky cracked one eye open to look at Steve. “Med school,” he said. “What made you choose it?”

Steve shrugged as well as he could when he was flat on his back. The hem of his shirt slid up just far enough to be a distraction and Bucky quickly averted his eyes. “Just seemed to fit, I guess. You remember how much time I spent in hospitals as a kid? And then when Mom got sick it kinda seemed like going home. Is that fucked up?”

Bucky answered with a shrug of his own, leaning back on his elbows. His weight dropped to one side as his bad arm threatened to give out on him. “Nah. If it makes you happy, then it makes you happy. Nothing fucked up about that.”

Steve rolled over onto his side facing Bucky. “How come you never went to school?” he asked.

He was too close for comfort. Bucky resisted the sudden urge to scuttle backwards like a crab. “I dunno,” he replied. “I just… didn’t. Not smart enough, I suppose.”

Steve pursed his lips in a way that said he clearly saw through Bucky’s bullshit. “You’re smart, Buck. Smarter than you’d like people to know anyway. I don’t know why you hide it the way you do.”

Bucky huffed out a breath. “Believe me, I’m not hiding being smart. Maybe that’s your rose-colored glasses talking. Pretty sure the only reason I even got through the last year of middle school was ‘cause you helped me so much.”

Steve gave him the patented Steve Rogers look that had stopped him from doing many a stupid thing as a child. “You would have gotten by just fine on your own, Buck.”

“Yeah, but it was nice that I didn’t have to.” He winked at Steve, the flirting more a force of habit than anything. It had always been his way to turn on the charm whenever an adult used to talk to him about school and his potential and college and all those other things he had never seen in his future. “I don’t know,” he continued, and then the words spilled out, unbidden. “I guess I was just scared of being a failure, trying to do it all on my own. I figured my parents couldn’t be disappointed in me if I just never gave them the chance to get their hopes up in the first place.”

Steve’s brow furrowed and he looked down at Bucky in dismay. He was so much in Bucky’s space that all Bucky could see was the blue of his eyes, all he could smell was the skin-salt-sweat smell that was uniquely and wonderfully Steve. His heart beat quicker in his chest as Steve leaned even closer. 

“Your parents wouldn’t have been disappointed, Bucky. You’ve never been a failure, not at anything.

He was trapped by Steve’s eyes, drowning in them. “Some things,” he said quietly, and was it just his imagination or was Steve getting closer and-

Whatever might have happened next he’d never know, because at that exact second Winter let out of series of barks and whimpers and Bucky whipped his head around to find the source of her distress.

His heart stopped in his chest before kicking back up with a panicked beat that chipped away at his ribcage. Becca was lying in the grass, completely still. Winter barked again, straining desperately at the chain that held her back. Bucky scrambled to his feet in an instant, Steve close behind him.

He sprinted the few feet that separated them and dropped to his knees beside her. She was so still. For a second he just stared, frozen, blood rushing in his ears and drowning out his thoughts. There was a thump as Steve hit the ground next to him. His hands went to work immediately, checking for a pulse, peeling back her eyelids. Watching him, Bucky’s brain roared back to life, breaking free of the momentary paralysis.

“Becca!” he said loudly as he gripped her shoulders. She remained still and boneless and pale. “Becca!” he tried again, his voice desperate. Without a proper monitor, they’d been relying on a steady schedule to keep her blood sugar under control, but it looked like that hadn’t worked together. He looked her over; her lips were dry and chapped and her breath was coming in short bursts. All signs of blood sugar that was far too high. 

“Shit!” he cursed. “She took her insulin after lunch, right?”

Steve nodded

Bucky looked at his sister again, willing with every fiber of his being for something to have changed. It hadn’t. Becca still lay on the ground, chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. Behind him, Winter whined again.

“Go, get it quick,” Bucky said urgently.

Steve took off towards the house like an Olympic sprinter, covering large amounts of ground with each gigantic stride. The back door banged shut behind him and the echo of it reverberated around the yard.

Bucky took Becca’s hand. His large hand seemed to swallow her delicate one. He felt her hot palm beneath his, the delicate bones of her fingers, the fluttery pulse at her wrist. He gripped as hard as he dared, trying desperately to let her know he was there. “Come on Becs,” he murmured, using his other hand to push back a lock of hair that had fallen across her pale forehead. “You’re fine. Steve’s on his way. I’m gonna fix this, okay? You’re fine. You’re gonna be fine.”

He kept up the steady chant until it became nothing but a drone of meaningless sounds. He tucked her hair behind her ears, stroked a broad thumb across her cheek, all the while holding on tightly to her hand. Steve was gone for what felt like an eternity. Bucky felt like he had lived lifetimes by the time Steve finally skidded to a stop next to him, throwing all his momentum into a forward drop at the last second to avoid running over them.

Bucky snatched the insulin from Steve’s hand. The vial was wet on the outside. The ice had been gone for more than a week, and they had resorted to keeping the insulin submerged in the water filled cooler, letting the liquid conduct as much cold as it could. Steve, bless him, had taken the time to attach the needle tip and Bucky injected the medication. 

He watched, eyes wide, as he waited for the insulin to take effect. He wasn’t sure he was breathing. Didn’t really care either. Everything in him was focused on Becca. She still showed no changes.

Not enough. He prepped another dose.

Nothing.

A third dose. His heart broke as he had to stab into her bruised skin again.

Finally, _finally_ , her breathing seemed to even out. It would be impossible to tell the true extent the hyperglycemia until they could test it, and that would have to wait until she was awake. But she was _alive_ , and that was all that mattered. He let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. The adrenaline flooded out of him, leaving him limp and boneless as he fell backwards onto the grass, insulin still held tightly in one hand.

Three times. It had taken three times the normal dose to bring her blood sugar down. That number terrified him. Three times. How much did that cut down on the amount they had left? The insulin was spoiling more quickly than he’d ever imagined. Or maybe he had imagined, but he hadn’t let himself really _understand_ it. He had let himself play at being blind and deaf and dumb to the situation. _No need to worry, everything will work out somehow._ But it wouldn’t. How soon before it would be nothing but an inert liquid, all but useless to help her?

Becca hadn’t woken up, but he hadn’t expected her to. He remembered the drill from his childhood, back before they had gotten the diabetes under careful control with diet and insulin. Her color was better already though, her breaths deeper, and he knew he had gotten her blood sugar to- if not perfect- at least to a place where her organs weren’t likely to start shutting down anytime soon. He shivered involuntarily at the thought.

Beside him, Steve stood and then bent down to pick up her prone body. Bucky motioned him away and then wordlessly handed him the rest of the insulin. He got his arms under her and then gently lifted her into his arms. She was feather-light, all bird bones and air. Had she always been so thin? He looked at her, and for a second he could see down, down into the inner workings of her body to the destroyed little islands of beta cells in her pancreas. Such a little thing, just a tiny set of cells, and yet it had managed to turn her world upside down from day one. It didn’t seem fair. But as Steve had said, nothing about any of this was fair.

He carried her to the house while Steve quickly snatched up all their ammunition and the gun parts Becca had been working on. He also let Winter loose. She immediately crowded Bucky’s legs, jumping up and trying to lick Becca’s face. Bucky shooed her away and she dropped down obediently, following him at a steady pace through the back door and all the way down the hallway to Becca’s bedroom. He laid her down softly on her bed, busying himself with tucking the sheet in around her and then fetching a large glass of water for when she woke up. He knew from experience to expect the dizzying thirst that followed a hyperglycemic episode.

He could hear Steve moving around the house, cabinets opening and closing as he tidied up and prepared the house for nightfall. When the door to Becca’s room finally creaked open and Steve crept inside, Bucky was sitting in Becca’s desk chair, one leg pulled up, elbow resting on his knee and face propped up on his palm, silently watching her sleep.

It said something about Bucky’s state of mind that he didn’t inch away when Steve stood close to him. His presence was a comfort, solid and sturdy, and Bucky felt a little less like crying with Steve by his side. As if by magic a sandwich appeared in front of his face. Bucky took it, mouth twisting with displeasure. He wasn’t stupid.He knew he had to eat. Wouldn’t do Becca any good for him to be at any less than his best. Knowing all that didn’t make him less nauseous though.

“Thanks” Bucky said quietly, taking the proffered sandwich. The bread was lumpy and dense but edible, something Steve had thrown together over the fire without any dairy. It didn’t taste nearly as bad as it looked. Bucky smiled when he looked closer. Peanut butter, no jelly. After all this time Steve had remembered.

Steve didn’t answer, just clapped a warm, solid hand onto his shoulder before pushing the contents of the desktop aside and hoisting him up onto it. Head leaned against the wall and legs dangling off the edge of the desk, he looked so much like the teenager he had once been that Bucky’s breath nearly caught in his throat and he had to look away as unshed tears burned at the corners of his eyes. It was just the day, he told himself. Too much stress making him too emotional.

Just the day, that was all.

They stayed there through the night. Steve eventually fell asleep, head lolling against the wall and body slumped down. Becca continued to sleep peacefully in her bed, breathing not quite as strong as he would like, but there all the same. Try as he might, Bucky didn’t sleep a wink.


	10. Chapter 10

All throughout the long night an idea brewed in Bucky’s head, and by the next afternoon he had almost fully formed his plan.

“I’m going back into town tomorrow.”

“Huh?” Steve looked up from his work. Sweat beaded at his temple and rolled down to his neck. There was a small smear of dirt across the bridge of his nose where he had rubbed at it earlier. It was oddly adorable.

 _Quit it_ , Bucky scolded himself. He swung the axe downward, splitting the log at his feet. “I’m going back into town. We need more insulin.”

“I thought you said the pharmacy was trashed,” Steve said as he stripped the dried leaves off another small piece of branch. They’d use it later as kindling.

A few stray strands from Bucky’s ponytail were tickling the sides of his face, and he scowled as he redid the tie. Like Steve, his hair was damp with sweat and he was covered with dirt and bits of bark. They were collecting wood for the winter a few hundred yards into the forest at the edge of the property. Already, Bucky felt like they’d been at it forever, even if it had only been a couple of hours. He’d done the math for how much they’d need to last the winter that morning. The number was appalling. At least he could be grateful that the towering trees overhead provided some sort of coverage from the sun, even if it didn’t stop all of the muggy heat from reaching them. Small mercies, he supposed.

“It was trashed,” he said grimly, hauling over another fallen branch large enough to serve as firewood once they cut it down to size. “But who knows? Bruce is pretty capable and he seemed prepared for the long haul.” He grunted as he hefted the axe over his shoulder again. “Besides, anything could have happened out there. There could have been shipments of medicine. Hell, maybe the army’s come in and everything’s back to normal.”

“You think so?” Steve cocked his head, giving Bucky an appraising look that said he thought Bucky was being stupid. Immediately, he felt his temper rise. 

“Well, if it had happened we wouldn’t know,” he scowled. “We’ve been hiding out here, and we’re gonna either run out of insulin or it’s gonna spoil completely. And soon.”

He brought the axe down hard, but the edge caught on something and the branch split unevenly. The reverberation vibrated through him, a lightning-bolt of pain lancing swiftly through his arm. He lost his grip on the axe and it thudded loudly to the ground as he cursed and hugged his arm to his chest.

“Let me see that,” Steve said, rising from his crouch. He reached for Bucky’s arm and Bucky complied, aching dull waves pulsing through his arm like the tide. He held as still as the pain would let him, but even Steve’s gentlest touch felt like a live-wire to his skin.

Steve peeled back the bandage and Bucky cringed at the sight. It was true he hadn’t paid much attention to the injury lately, just wrapped it and forgotten about it. Aside from the occasional twitches and that persistent dull ache it hadn’t bothered him. It wasn’t like he’d tried to not take care of it, but they’d been so busy he hadn’t even thought to, waking at dawn each morning and falling into bed each night, exhausted.

Well, he was definitely paying attention now. The cut still extended nearly half the length of his forearm, edges raised and puffy. Steve’s black haphazard stitches ran in a crooked line like some kind of science experiment gone wrong. The skin was crusted with dried blood and plasma and something a nasty shade of yellow. It didn’t look like it had healed at all.

“Bucky,” Steve breathed, staring at his arm, “this looks _really_ bad.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Bucky replied, annoyance leaching into his voice. Whether at Steve or the situation, he couldn’t tell.

“I’m serious Buck,” Steve continued, unperturbed by Bucky’s tone. “Fuck, I dunno what to do to fix this. I mean, we can clean it out, but I think you need antibiotics.”

They’d done a thorough assessment of any and all medications in the house last week. Thanks to his mother’s aversion to over-to-the-counter drugs, their supply was woefully inadequate.

The sudden crack of a branch in the distance caught his attention, and it took him a few seconds for his mind to place the sound. He yanked his arms from Steve’s grasp, who looked slightly hurt by the action and put his hands up. “Sorry,” he said, “I won’t touch you if you don’t-“

“ _Shut up_ ,” Bucky hissed and Steve immediately fell silent.

They both heard it this time, that distinct crack-pop of dry twigs breaking underfoot. A muffled curse, and then a sound like a person was crashing through the underbrush, leaves rustling loudly as they passed. All of Bucky’s senses screamed at him, _Danger!_ He whipped his head around quickly, trying to figure out where the sounds were coming from.

“There,” he whispered to Steve, pointing off to the left. It was more a precaution than anything, as the person was making so much noise Bucky might not have been heard even if he had shouted. He tightened his grip on the axe as much as he could. His left arm felt weak and boneless, and his fingers didn’t seem to want to obey him at all. He turned to face the direction of the noise, and then from behind him-

A yank. Something tugged on the back of his shirt so hard he stumbled backwards, feet slipping over the grass and leaves underfoot. Whatever it was dragged him mercilessly across the clearing, and he narrowly avoided falling on his ass as he swung around, axe raised and ready, to see Steve holding up his hands and darting quickly back. 

Bucky’s hands froze on the axe grip as cold realization flooded through him. “Fucking Christ!” He put as much emphasis into the whisper as he could. “Steve! What the fuck, you almost made me kill you!” He dropped the would-be murder weapon down to his side and held it in his right hand, the fingers of the left gone completely numb. 

Another crash, closer this time, and Steve grabbed Bucky’s sleeve and yanked again, pulling him down into a crouch. In front of them was an old tree, huge and leafy. At some point, another smaller tree had fallen against it, and over time foliage had grown in the gap between them. It made the perfect place for them to watch and wait without exposing themselves. 

Steve stared through a gap in the leaves. “Next time you try to kill me with it you’re losing your tool privileges.”

“Hey,” Bucky hissed. “Here’s an idea. Maybe next time don’t fucking manhandle the person with the fucking axe!”

Steve snorted and eyed him with amusement before returning to peer through the foliage. “Well, fucking excuse me for trying to save your dumb-ass life.”

“How was that saving my life?”

“Seriously?” Steve sounded slightly miffed now. “You were just standing there in the open like a fucking idiot. How did you think that was gonna go? Just start swinging and hope it works out?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. There was a tree root poking into his shin. It was annoying and slightly painful, but the space was small, and if he moved it put him practically in Steve’s lap. As it was, they were pushed as close together as they could be to conceal themselves. He could feel the heat of Steve’s skin, the rise and fall of his chest, smell the mix of sweat and smoke and the watered-down remnants of the shampoo they had left. 

Then came the loudest sounds yet. There was a huge rustling of leaves as the person fumbled their way into the clearing, cursing under their breath the entire time. It was a man. Bucky could see him clearly from where he was hiding. The man was in a pair of jeans that were dirty and ripped at the knees, and his shirt had definitely seen better days. There were tiny scratches all over his face and arms from getting poked and prodded by branches during his haphazard way through the trees. He had a twenty-two long rifle in his arms, but he held it awkwardly, far away from his body like he was afraid it might bite. It took Bucky less than a second to realize that this man, like the one they’d encountered at the grocery store, was extremely inexperienced. Bucky looked down. The guy wasn’t even wearing boots; he had on a dingy pair of Converse. One wrong step, and the way he was moving he’d be down an ankle and in a whole lot of trouble. 

Beside him Steve stiffened and his hand went to his back, drawing the gun Bucky had given him in one fluid motion. Gently, Bucky reached out and pushed Steve’s arm down so that the gun was pointing at the ground. Steve looked sharply at him and Bucky shook his head. The man in the clearing was looking side to side, clearly torn on what direction to head. 

“Look at him,” Bucky whispered. “He’s got no clue what he’s doing with that gun.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s not looking to hurt someone.”

Something caught Bucky’s eye. “Look,” he said. This time Steve’s gaze followed Bucky’s finger as he pointed at the man. Or more specifically, at the tuft of bloodied fur hanging off his belt. “I think he’s trying to hunt.”

While they had been whispering, it appeared the amateur hunter had finally decided on a direction and he crashed away from them. A wave of relief washed over Bucky as he watched the man go. He was heading in the opposite direction of the house. Wordlessly, they both agreed to stay a hidden a while longer until they were sure the potential threat had gone.

Finally, after several tense minutes, Bucky let himself fall backward from his crouch, calves and thighs burning as the blood flow returned to normal. The dirt was slightly cool beneath him, and he finally loosened his grip on the axe completely, the heavy tool falling into the dirt beside him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, rubbing hard at the back of his calf to relieve the ache of tensed muscles. He looked idly in the direction the man had gone. “He’s not gonna catch shit if he keeps making that much noise. Probably scared off every animal in the goddamn area. Not even sure why he was out this far to begin with.”

Steve sat heavily beside him, knees pulled up and arms resting loosely over top of them. He frowned. “I think we’ve forgotten how lucky we are that your mom saved all that food. People in the city have got to be starving by now. Hell, that grocery store was already cleared out on the second day.”

Bucky felt cold at the thought. So far he had been picturing the town the way it had been three weeks ago. A disaster sure, but a manageable one. What would it be like now? He pictured fires crackling through busted out windows, broken glass in the street, and- God, probably more bodies as well. He remembered vividly the wide open eyes of the man they’d found and suddenly wished he had stopped to find out his name.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, “we’re lucky.” He thought of the insulin in the basement, floating in the useless cooler. He didn’t feel particularly lucky.

Steve frowned again, little furrows appearing between his eyebrows. “I don’t like that he came this close to the house, even if it was by accident.”

Bucky shrugged. “He didn’t even notice us and we were five feet away from him. I doubt he’s gonna give us any trouble.”

“It’s not him I’m worried about. If he’s out hunting, then there’s probably others out there too. One of them is bound to stumble on the house sooner or later.” He paused. “People will do crazy things to survive.”

“So what’re you saying is we shouldn’t come out here anymore?”

“No,” Steve shook his head. “I’m saying we should have a contingency plan.”

“Plan for what?” Bucky asked, already knowing he wouldn’t like the answer.

“A...“ Steve paused. “A plan to leave the house. If we have to.”

Bucky’s hand clenched involuntarily in the dirt, a sharp, sudden pain radiating up his forearm. Dry mud and bits of decomposed leaves trickled through his fingers as an ant crawled over his wrist. Steve’s words bounced around the inside of his skull, spinning his thoughts every which way. Leave the house? They couldn’t leave the house. That _wasn’t_ an option. He thought of Becca, his fragile, beautiful, kind-hearted sister, out there in the fire and the fear and the people going crazy. Becca scrounging for food in bombed-out grocery stores, Becca seeing bodies on the road like trash, Becca with a goddamn gun to her head. And even if she survived all that, the clock would still be ticking down, down, down until her own body killed her.

It wasn’t hard to make a decision after that. There wasn’t even a decision to make. He stood and offered Steve a hand to help pull him up. “We’re not leaving. We can figure out a way to fortify the house, but we’re _not leaving_.”

Steve ignored Bucky’s hand, heaving himself off of the ground with a grunt. When he turned to face him again, he had his arms crossed over his chest and a determined glint in his eyes. Bucky recognized that familiar stance from every time he’d ever seen Steve argue with someone growing up, and that had been _a lot_. Steve had rarely lost.

Too bad Bucky wasn’t particularly in a losing mood today.

“We might not have a choice, Bucky.”

“We do have a choice,” he said calmly. “If someone wants what’s ours, we fight for it.”

“And if something happens to Becca while we’re ‘ _fighting_ ’?”

Bucky felt annoyance flame through him, quick and hot. He bit the inside of his cheek hard to control his next words. “Nothing’s going to happen to Becca.”

“You can’t know that.”

His annoyance was turning quickly into anger. “Actually, I _do_ know that, Steve. I know I can protect her here way better than I can out there!” He flung his arms wide, indicating what ‘out there’ might be.

Steve stiffened, tension radiating off of him in waves. The taught line of his shoulders saying more about his state of mind than his mouth ever could. “I’m not saying you can’t protect her,” he ground out slowly, “but if someone takes us by surprise-“

“I won’t let them.”

“Well, that’s kind of the definition of surprise,” Steve said vehemently. “How would you even- you know what? No.”

“No, what?”

“I’m not doing this with you. There’s no point.” He made a move towards their half-finished pile of firewood. “I’m going back to the house. We can talk when we’re both calmer.”

He started to walk away, and Bucky knew he should let it go, let Steve calm down, let himself calm down, but-

“Oh, what a big fucking surprise,” Bucky muttered, his voice purposefully loud enough for Steve to hear every word. “Steve’s doing the only thing he’s really good at. Leaving.”

Steve whirled around to face him again, his face an ugly mix of annoyed and angry and hurt. “That’s not-“

But Bucky didn’t have the slightest inclination to hear whatever Steve had to say. Something was bubbling up from deep within him, something dark and viscous and ugly, let loose from a place in his chest he hadn’t even known existed.

“What the fuck happened to you Steve? When we were kids I couldn’t have paid you to run away from anything, not even a fight with someone twice your size. Was it me? Was it my fault?”

Steve stopped dead in his tracks. “What?”

Somehow that made Bucky even angrier. After everything they’d been through, trying to play it off like he didn’t know what Bucky was talking about was low. “You just stopped talking to me! Do you know how much that hurt? After we had sex and-“ He paused and swallowed hard. His throat felt like shards of glass. “After we were together you just- stopped. “We were sixteen, Steve, and you told me you loved me and then just...Our whole lives, I never saw you quit anything, ever, and you just left me out to dry. Like it was nothing.”

His eyes burned and he swiped a hand furiously over his face. “You could have told me! But no! You just told me you loved me and that we’d be together no matter what and then you fucked me over. You could’ve just _said_ you didn’t want to be with me, and we could have forgotten it ever happened and at least been _friends_ , but no, Steve fucking Rogers can’t ever make anything easy!”

Bucky laughed bitterly, because if he didn’t, he knew he was going to cry. “And you know the worst part? I think I would’ve been fine if you’d stopped talking to me after my family moved, because that would have sucked, but I still would’ve understand eventually. It happens. I know that. But you didn’t even have the fucking decency to at least _pretend_ to care until I was gone. You just up and disappeared the next fucking day. Do you know what that does to a person, Steve? To be treated like that by their best friend, let alone the first person they ever slept with?” He paused and then- “I never even got to say goodbye.”

Steve had stayed quiet throughout Bucky’s impassioned speech. “Please,” he finally said, face twisted into something like pain. “Please, let’s not do this now. You’re angry, I get it, but please, if we keep going, we’re both going to say things we end up regretting.”

“Yeah?” Bucky spat back. “At least it’ll be saying _something_. But I’m not surprised that you don’t want to talk. You never did back then either.”

Steve’s face twisted again. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk to you, Bucky. Or that I didn’t want to be with you. God, that wasn’t it. I wanted to, more than anything. Believe me, I wanted it.”

“Well, you sure did a great fucking job of hiding it.”

Steve took a shuddery breath, all the angry tension from before bleeding out of his body. “I was _scared_.” Bucky scoffed and Steve continued, insisting, “I know it sounds like a bullshit excuse and it is, but it’s also true. I was a kid and you moved away and I was so scared of what I felt for you. It was easier to pretend it never happened.”

“Huh,” Bucky said, nodding slowly. Cynicism leached into every syllable. “Makes perfect sense. You were scared so obviously the best solution was to ignore every single fucking call and email and text and just pretend that I didn’t exist. I mean, why not? Why fix the leaky pipes when you can just burn the entire house down instead? Fuck you, Steve,” he spat. “We’re not leaving. You can if you want to but I keep my fucking promises.”

He saw Steve’s hands clench so hard the knuckles turned white. “God, I forgot how fucking stubborn you can be,” he muttered.

“Like you’re one to talk,” Bucky laughed sardonically. “Pot, meet the fucking kettle. I mean, _Christ_ , I’ve never met anyone so-“

His words died in his throat because in one quick movement Steve closed the space between them, grabbed him by the shoulders, and-

And then Steve was kissing him and it was everything like what he remembered and nothing like it at all. Every nerve in his body was on fire, electrical impulses firing rapidly and overloading him with sensation. This kiss was rough, demanding, nothing gentle or loving about it, just pure frustration and need.

Steve’s lips were chapped from being outside, and he bit and nipped forcefully at Bucky’s mouth. Bucky opened unthinkingly in the second it took his brain to get back online and then he was kissing Steve back. Steve’s hands were everywhere; his hips, his waist, his face, buried in his hair, and Bucky groaned when his fingers tightened and pulled.

Steve swallowed the sound and then his tongue was in Bucky’s mouth; he tasted like toothpaste and mint and the coffee they’d made that morning over the fire. Suddenly Steve pushed at him, using his body weight to move Bucky backwards. Bucky stumbled, feet tangling together as Steve forced him back until he hit the rough bark of the tree.

They both had more leverage now. Bucky grasped the nape of Steve’s neck, pulling on the soft hairs as Steve pushed against him. Their bodies burned where they touched, every minute shift sending crackles of electricity up and down his spine. His fingers tightened on Steve’s skin, pulling at him, it wasn’t enough, he needed to be closer-

And then, as suddenly as it had started, it was over. Steve pulled back and Bucky tried to follow, but Steve took a hold of him and pushed him back gently, his large hands on either side of Bucky’s jaw. They stared at each other, both breathing hard, and it was like the world outside had disappeared. Everything narrowed down to that one point; Steve’s hands on him, Steve’s eyes looking into his, blue that shifted and changed like the ocean tides.

“We’ll stay,” Steve said, letting his hands briefly linger on Bucky’s skin before turning and walking away. Bucky stayed for just a moment longer, slumped against the tree, heart beating out a drum solo in his chest, before he quickly followed after him.

 

\---

 

He had chased after Steve with the complete intention of confronting him and finding out what the hell had just happened. But as they walked, Bucky breaking into a slight jog every few yards to keep up with Steve’s long-legged pace, his conviction quickly waned. Doubt took its place, and by the time they reached the house he was so out of sorts that he could barely bring himself to even look at Steve, much less talk to him. 

Steve seemed to take it all in stride; flitting around the house, talking to Becca, setting up dinner, all while Bucky struggled to make sense of what he was feeling. He should be happy, right? They had kissed. Steve had kissed him. He’d dreamed of this every day for a year after they were together, and eventually, when he had finally realized that Steve was never going to answer him, it had broken his heart to know that he would never have it again. He should be elated, thrilled beyond measure. So why wasn’t he?

As he turned these thoughts over in his head, annoyance began to creep in at the edges. Who the fuck did Steve think he was? Bucky had let him in, had entwined their lives together like a spider spinning a web, and Steve had treated it like it was nothing. Bucky had loved him, and Steve had left. 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be at all. It wasn’t fair to finally, finally, get what he had wanted for so goddamn long and it still wasn’t right. It wasn’t right at all. He hated himself for feeling this way and he hated Steve for making it all happen in the first place. He hated him because the only other option was to love him, and he couldn’t do that, not again. His feet took him to the kitchen before he could even think about it, every emotion he had bubbling away just under the surface, ready to explode the minute he got to Steve. 

The kitchen was bright, late afternoon sunlight streaming in through the thrown-open windows. Steve, who had become the master of making canned food actually taste good, was preparing something on the counter that smelled wonderful. He had obviously just come in from the grill, cheeks red from the heat and the smell of smoke swirling around him. Becca was sitting on the counter beside him, feet banging occasionally on the cabinets beneath her. Steve was in the middle of laughing at something she had said.

“Steve!” he said sharply, and his tone made the two of them fall silent and turn to face him. Becca’s eyes were wide and questioning, but Steve just looked resigned, like he had been expecting this and was just ready to finally get it over with. Well, that was something with which Bucky would gladly help him. He didn’t get the chance though. 

The sound was so foreign it took him an embarrassingly long time to place it. But there it was again, the sharp rap of knuckles against a wooden door. 

The front door.


	11. Chapter 11

A sudden spike of adrenaline flowed through Bucky. They were so far out. There shouldn’t be anyone to knock on the door. There was no reason for people to come this way. Anyone walking to or from town would go on the main roads, not the tiny backroads that led to the Barnes property. A thousand possibilities flashed through his mind in an instant, each one worse than the last. 

“Becca, go to your room,” he said calmly, none of the panic he felt showing in his voice. 

“But-“

“Now.”

Becca’s jaw clenched, and he was almost certain she surreptitiously flipped him the middle finger as she left the kitchen, but at least she listened. 

He looked at Steve, all plans of confronting him forgotten. Steve was already drawing his pistol out, checking to see that it was properly loaded. Bucky motioned with a slight jerk of his head and Steve followed, the two of them slipping into a perfect synchronicity as they silently approached the door. When they got there, Steve slipped flat against the wall beside it, gun held at the ready. He nodded, a quick jerk to show that he was ready. Bucky pulled aside the chain and undid the deadbolt, all the while cursing the house’s antique doors. What he wouldn’t give right now for one with a peephole, or even just one thin enough to shout through. 

After all the tension, the man on the front porch was almost disappointingly normal. Bucky was careful to keep his guard up though. The feel of a cold gun at his neck had done more than just scare him- it had taught him that even a friendly face could hide a monster.

 

And the man in front of him did have a friendly face. Handsome too, with warm brown eyes and hair to match, and more than few days worth of stubble on his chin. He was nearly as tall as Bucky and built the same, lean and muscled. He looked perfectly pleasant in all the ways a person could be. And, Bucky realized, feeling his hackles start to rise, he didn’t look like he’d been living rough at all.

“Hi,” the man said, flashing straight white teeth in Bucky’s direction. His smile was charming, little laugh lines crinkling around his mouth. Bucky couldn’t help but note that his smile didn’t reach his eyes at all. Beside him, Steve tensed and Bucky made a motion with his hand that he hoped Steve would interpret as ‘stay put’.

“What do you want?” Bucky asked flatly.

For just a second something flashed across the man’s face. A sour expression and then it was gone, replaced again by that disarming smile. “My name’s Brock Rumlow,” he said, voice light and cheerful. He held out a hand that Bucky didn’t even look at. After a second he retracted it, a minute twitch jumping in the muscles of his jaw. “Well,” he continued, “I was just driving through town a few weeks ago when my car stopped working and the whole damn world went crazy. I tried to go to the police for some help, but that uh, didn’t work out. I been on the move ever since, trying to get back home. I’m from New Jersey.” He laughed, and the sound was like nails scraping over a blackboard to Bucky’s ears. “Wrong place, wrong, ya know?”

Bucky did know, but he kept that to himself.

“Anyway, I know the whole thing sounds like a sob story, but I was just passing by and I saw your house and I thought, it’s been a real long time since I had an actual pillow under my head.” He paused, clearly waiting for Bucky to offer him something, but Bucky stayed silent, arms crossed over his chest. Rumlow’s smile dimmed a little. “I was just wondering if I couldn’t trouble you for a place to stay, just for tonight. I promise I won’t be any trouble.”

“Where did you say you were from again?”

Rumlow seemed to be struggling to keep the pleasant look on his face now. His mouth was still smiling, but a hint of annoyance was starting to creep into his eyes. “New Jersey,” he said.

Bucky raised his eyebrow. “So you’re planning to walk to Jersey, then?”

Rumlow huffed out a laugh that was more like a curse. “Guess I am. Listen,” he said, “I would really appreciate you helping me out here, man. Surely you’ve got a couch I can sleep on, or a floor? After all, this is a big house for just you.”

He was probing for information. Bucky saw it immediately, and he stood up straighter, blocking as much of Rumlow’s view into the house with his body as he could. “Sorry,” he said, certain that he couldn’t sound any less sorry if he tried. “You’ll have to find somewhere else.” He had just started to swing the door shut in Rumlow’s handsome face when a voice from behind him made his blood run cold.

“Bucky! Don’t be rude! We have plenty of room for him!”

He whipped around, seeing Steve moving fast in his peripheral vision. There, in the middle of the room, stood Becca. Steve got to her quickly, practically using his body as a shield, blocking her from Rumlow’s shrewd eyes. It was a good effort but it was too late. Rumlow had already seen, already knew far too much about them. Bucky wondered what kind of target they looked like, two young men and a teenage girl.

“Come on, Becca,” Steve said quietly, ushering her quickly out of the room.

Bucky could hear her indignant protests and the murmur of Steve’s calm responses blending into a quiet hum as they got farther away. He turned and Rumlow was still standing there on the porch, eyes calculating. For a moment, he wondered what Rumlow’s pretty face would look like if he punched it. “Find somewhere else,” he said, slamming the door harder than was strictly necessary. The annoyed look on Rumlow’s face as the door swung closed was more satisfying then he’d like to admit.

“Fuck!” he cursed as soon as all the locks were back in place. The initial panic had subsided already, leaving his hands shaky and his heart slowly returning to normal. It would be fine, he told himself. Rumlow was one guy. He couldn’t do anything against both him and Steve, and besides, there was always the chance that he had genuinely been looking for a place to stay the night on his way home.

Bucky rubbed at his eyes with the palms of his hands, shaking his head hard to try and clear it. Whatever, it didn’t matter now. With any luck, Brock Rumlow would be far, far away from them soon enough, and they could forget all about it.

Steve had taken Becca into the kitchen, and Bucky was practically ready to fall at his feet and thank him for his quick reaction time. That feeling evaporated when he reached them, and the familiar surge of dread filled him once more. The end of the world sure did seem hellbent on giving him a goddamn heart attack

Becca was hunched over in one of the kitchen chairs, pale, and looking like she might throw up at any minute. Steve was crouched beside her, murmuring softly, one hand rubbing comforting circles on her back. He looked up when Bucky walked in, his face anxious. “She just started getting sick, but she’s had insulin and she barely ate dinner.”

“It’s her blood sugar,” Bucky told him, walking quickly to the bank of cabinets and opening and closing each one until he found what he was looking for.

“But there’s no reason for it to be too high,” Steve said as Becca breathed hard through her nose to suppress the nausea.

“It’s not,” Bucky said. He went to her and knelt in front of the chair, holding out a partially unwrapped candy bar. She looked at it warily and he moved it closer, unrelenting. She’d done the same thing when she was younger, and Bucky was more than prepared to deal with it. “It’s too low,” he continued, and when Steve looked confused he clarified, “Stress. For you and me it makes our blood sugar go up, but for people with type one it can tank it.”

He shoved the candy bar right up under her nose and she took it, glaring at him as she took a shaky bite. “You can give me all the shitty looks you want,” he told her fondly. “If you didn’t want me to force food on you when you’re miserable, then you should have made sure to eat.”

He watched her slowly chew the candy before turning his eyes to Steve. “You guys alright?”

Steve nodded. “You have any idea who that was?

“No idea.” Bucky shook his head and grimaced. “And I don’t want to.”

“Shouldn’t have been so rude.” Becca finally joined the conversation, voice sullen.

“Yeah, well, better safe than sorry,” he said. “And I want you to promise me that if anyone else comes to the door you’ll go straight to your room unless Steve or I tell you something different.”

She seemed inclined to argue, stiffening in her chair, but then she seemed to remember their previous fight and slumped back down again. “You still didn’t have to be rude,” she muttered.

He huffed a laugh. “Shut up and eat your candy.”

 

\---

 

Hours later Bucky jerked awake, covered in sweat and head still swirling with the remnants of a dream. Or maybe a nightmare. He couldn’t remember and already it was gone, like dandelion seeds on the wind. 

But it wasn't a dream or a nightmare that had woken him. It took him a moment, but then he heard the low, snarling noise again and realized it was Winter. She had trotted into his room sometime after midnight, curled up on his bed, and promptly snored herself to sleep. Now though, she was up on all fours, crouched low, ears pinned to her head. Another growl rumbled deep in her chest as she bared her teeth, attention focused entirely on the darkened doorway. Immediately he tensed, any traces of lingering sleepiness vanishing in an instant. The gun was sitting on the nightstand next to him, fully loaded, a bullet already in the chamber. It was a dangerous way to keep an unattended gun, but the reassurance of its presence had helped him drift into an uneasy sleep. 

"Shhh," he soothed Winter, resting a hand on top of her head. Her growl tapered off at his command, though her body remained poised to attack. In the silence, he closed his eyes and listened. It had taken a while to get used to the complete absence of anything mechanical; the hum of the refrigerator, the clicking on and off of the air conditioner, the buzz of electrical lines running close to the house. But the quiet had its uses too. 

He strained his ears for a moment more but there was nothing. Whatever had gotten Winter's attention wasn't making noise now. It could have been something simple; a raccoon rooting through the garbage or a squirrel running through the grass, but something deep in his gut told him to trust Winter.

"Good girl," he told her as his hand slipped off her head to the collar around her neck. He unclasped it, removing the clinking tags and making her as silent as possible. "Come on," he whispered as he climbed out of bed, bare feet landing gingerly on the wooden floor. At the last second, he grabbed the gun from his bedside table. 

Winter hurried after him as he crept down the dark hallway and into Becca's room. Her paws hardly made a sound as she leapt onto the end of Becca's bed, taking up a defensive posture once again. He made a mental note to give her some kind of treat in the morning, regardless of whether it had been a squirrel or not.

Keeping a firm grip on the gun with one hand, he knelt by the bed, putting him at eye level with Becca's sleeping face. With the other hand he gently shook her awake.

"Bucky?" she asked sleepily, eyes blurry and crusted with sleep.

He whispered as loudly as he dared. "I need you to wake up, Becca. This is important." His serious tone got her attention and she blinked furiously, shaking off the haze of sleep. "You remember what you promised me last night?" She nodded, wide awake now, the barest hint of fear creeping into her expression. "Something's going on. I'm going to get Steve and check it out, but I need you to stay here and be quiet. The second I leave, I want you to lock the door and don't come out unless me or Steve tells you it's okay. Do you understand?"

Her face was pale and frightened, bedsheets tangled around her as she sat up. "What's going on?"

"It's probably nothing, but I just want to be sure. Don't worry. I'm gonna leave Winter here with you, okay?

For the first time her eyes took in the gun in his grasp. He could see the moment when the thin threads of panic started to twine together and crystallize into fear. "Please don't get hurt," she whispered, voice shaky. 

"Hey, hey, hey," he murmured, trying to head off the crying before it could start. Reaching up, he smoothed back a few strands of long hair, tucking it gently behind her ear. She was pale, too pale, and that familiar sense of alarm rose within him until he forced it back. "Look at me," he ordered her. "I'll be fine, Becca. I promise. And so will Steve. We're tough."

"But-"

"We're tough," he repeated, "and so are you. I need you to be brave right now."

She nodded, and for a moment she looked much younger than her age, lost and scared and in desperate need of comfort. He wished he could give it to her. Her eyes shone with unshed tears and he told her sternly, "None of that. Everything's going to be fine."

He stood, knees protesting the long length of time he'd spent crouched, and Becca watched him go. She seemed smaller somehow, huddled on her bed, drowning in a too-big sleep shirt with Winter standing guard at her side. He bent down and kissed her forehead before heading for the door. "Lock the door behind me. I love you, Becs."

"Love you too," she whispered as the door swung shut behind him. He hated leaving her like that, scared and alone, but his responsibility was for her safety. He could worry about the rest later. As he heard the click of the lock behind him, he wished more than anything to be wrong about the whole thing. Yeah, it would suck to have scared her that badly over nothing, but the alternative was even more unpleasant. 

Steve woke up much faster than Becca had, eyes alert and focused from almost the second that Bucky laid a hand on his shoulder. “What-“

Bucky put a finger to his lips and hefted his gun for Steve to see. His face went grim at the sight. “Something’s not right,” Bucky said quietly.

“Becca?” Steve asked immediately, worry in his voice, and Bucky felt a strange surge of warmth in his chest. He shook it off quickly. If he didn’t have time to comfort his sister, he sure as hell didn’t have time to ponder his feelings for Steve Rogers.

“Locked in her room with Winter.” 

Some of the tension left Steve’s body at that. “Thank God,” he muttered. Bucky was inclined to agree.

Steve was surprisingly graceful, maneuvering his large body up and out of bed with absolute silence. He supposed the need to be quiet overrode Steve’s usual clumsiness. Like Bucky, he’d left his gun on the nightstand beside him, though his was unloaded, bullet cleared from the chamber.

Bucky was so intent on listening for the little click of the magazine slotting into place that he almost missed it. But there it was; the slightest movement of fabric, like someone had disturbed the curtains, and then the creak of a floorboard. In the quiet dark of the house it might as well have been a gunshot. 

“Where’d that come from?” Steve whispered. He was already headed for the bedroom door, gun held tight at his side. 

Bucky had been trying to figure that out for himself. He put a hand on Steve’s shoulder as he passed, the slight gesture enough for Steve to stop and look at him. “Stop. We need a plan, at least.”

Steve turned to him, their faces inches away, the dim light seeping through the cracks in the blinds casting his profile in a blur of shadow. He was so close that Bucky could feel the heat of his breath. “What were you thinking?” he asked quietly. His voice was a low rumble that Bucky could feel in his chest. 

“Split up. You do the back of the house, I’ll do the front. We can meet back here when we’re done.”

“And if-“

Bucky knew immediately what Steve was about to ask and he headed off the question by nodding, not wanting to hear the words spoken aloud. Steve bit his lip hard and a bevy of expressions flitted across his face; fear and disgust and anger and finally grim resolution. He looked at the gun in his hands like it was some sort of dangerous creature, a snake lying in wait to strike. Bucky supposed in a way it was. 

Finally, though, he nodded, and Bucky released the grip on his shoulder and found himself suddenly bereft of the comfort of Steve’s body heat. For a moment he stood frozen, unsure of himself, but then Steve started to move away again and the words came out unbidden. “Steve, please… please be safe.”

Steve paused again, the blurred outline of his back all that Bucky could see. “You too, Buck.”

They separated, Steve heading to the right to investigate the garage, master bedroom, and the steps down to the basement. Bucky went to the left towards the living room and kitchen. Like in Steve’s room, hardly any moonlight peeked through the windows, and the hallway was as dark as a crypt. After the meeting with Rumlow, Bucky had closed all the blinds and drawn the curtains down over the windows to try and ease the nervousness that had been eating at him the rest of the night. As a result, not only was it darker than normal, but it was also stiflingly hot. His hair stuck to the back of his neck, and sweat was beginning to dampen the collar of his t-shirt. He longed for the coming months when summer would be over and they could enjoy the cool breezes of fall, though he wasn’t looking nearly as forward to freezing his ass off in the winter. One thing at a time.

His bare feet made no sound as he snuck down the hallway, passing by the doorway of his room, the open entrance black as pitch. He hadn’t heard anything since that creak of the floorboard, and he hoped Steve hadn’t either. God, what if something happened to Steve? The thought alone made him feel like he’d swallowed a bowling bowl, an uncomfortable weight pressing down on his chest and stomach, making it hard to breathe. _Stop being stupid_ , he scolded himself, trying to shake the thought away. _I’m just on edge from Rumlow. It’s going to end up being nothing but a goddamn raccoon._ He welcomed the vision of Steve and Becca laughing themselves silly over how worked up he had gotten over nothing.

He flattened himself against the wall at the end of the hallway, peering cautiously into the living room. It was easier to see in here, the skylight recessed in the ceiling bathed the whole room in an ambient glow. A quick glance around showed him nothing amiss. Everything was as they had left it, and there were no cabinets large enough to hide in, no chairs that blocked his view of the shadowy corners. 

He crept carefully through the room. He was sweating more now, the gun slipping in his slick fingers. Past the coffee table and the bookshelves and the blank-screened television that was now no more useful than a paperweight. He crouched low when he reached the couch, using its high back to conceal himself as he focused on his target: the wide-open archway that led to the kitchen. He cursed whoever had invented open floor plans. 

He paused, contemplating his next move. His thighs burned with the strain of holding a crouch for so long, and he noted with surprise that his hands were shaking. Strange. He wondered when that had happened. He’d lived with fear for so long now, had made bedfellows with it, that it took him aback to see the signs of it. He had thought he’d seen the worst of fear’s hold on him, but apparently not. 

His fingers trembled on the grip of the gun and he tensed to keep them still. A sudden bolt of agony lanced through his injured arm, bone-deep and nauseating. His free hand clutched at it. The skin was hot to touch, and at the slightest pressure pain sparked through him again. A clear, yellowish liquid soaked the edge of the bandage. 

In his worry about the state of his arm, he was so distracted that he forgot to skip over the loose floorboard. Another thing his dad had never gotten around to fixing, pushing the couch over the offending spot instead. In the weeks since then the couch had moved, inch by inch, until the unreliable board was exposed again. 

The sound split the air like a crack of thunder. Bucky froze, body still immediately, but it was no use. If there was someone in the kitchen there was no way that they wouldn’t have heard it. Hiding was pointless now. They had to know he was there. There was nothing else to be done. 

Heedless now of the amount of noise he made, Bucky darted towards the kitchen, gun held in front of him. His heart pounded wildly against his ribcage and his breath came in short, heavy bursts. He whirled around, trying to see in every direction all at once, and caught just a glimpse of a man- high cheekbones, dark eyes sunk deep in a sullen face, brown hair slicked back- before all hell broke loose. 

Bucky may have had a gun, but he was still just a twenty-two year old who had never been in any kind of fight, and he was woefully unprepared. The man was on him before Bucky had the chance to even react. He swung a nasty right hook, and by some miracle Bucky was able to throw himself sideways at the last second. His feet slipped out from under him and he fell, his head bouncing off one of the lower kitchen cabinets. But that was nothing compared to the pain of his bad arm catching on the handle. 

It was the worst thing he’d ever felt in his life; worse than when his appendix had burst when he eight, worse than the time he’d broken a wrist falling out of a tree when he eleven. The original cut had been a bee sting compared to this, and he couldn’t stop the howl of agony as it burst forth from his chest. His hand was numb, the gun skidding away across the floor and coming to a stop beneath the kitchen table. 

The fall had short-circuited his brain, every neuron firing at once, all of them screaming in pain. He choked back vomit, and he had one second of perfect clarity before something slammed into him with all the force of a truck. 

The man was on top of him, straddling his waist. Bucky was pinned, slumped against the cabinets by his weight, back bent at an unnatural angle against the floor beneath him. The first punch caught him squarely on the mouth and he could feel his lip split, slippery blood leaking down his chin. The second punch he dodged at the last second, the man cursing as his fist smashed into the wooden cabinet. 

Bucky kicked out from underneath him and lurched to the side. The gun, he needed his gun. He was outmatched in every way in a physical fight, and every second this went on his odds of survival grew more slim. 

He had made it barely a foot when the man caught up with him, delivering a hard strike to his neck. Bucky panicked instantly, trying to suck in air through a throat that wouldn’t cooperate. He reached for the man’s face with his good arm, clawing at his skin,and all the while his brain screamed for oxygen. He managed to pull in a wheezy breath and then another. The man grabbed his wrist, slamming it to the floor at an angle that made Bucky gasp. 

His bad arm was still numb, the fingers sluggish and unresponsive. He forced them to obey him and threw his arm up. His pinky and ring fingers caught at the edge of the man's eye socket and he dug in without mercy. 

The man bellowed in pain and yanked his head away. "You little motherfucker," he spat, and Bucky couldn't move his injured arm away fast enough. The man grabbed it, aiming for the bandaged skin, and sank his fingers into the wound.

Bucky saw stars. Supernovas of covered lights swelled and burst in front of his eyes and he screamed. He struggled wildly, still trapped by the man's bulk. He outweighed Bucky by at least fifty pounds, and all of it was muscle. He had no chance, Bucky realized with a sinking feeling that barely registered over the agony of his arm. He could feel his pulse pounding in the wound. This was over. Unless he did something soon this man would beat him, probably kill him, and then he'd go after Becca and Steve.

Up until that point he had been kicking and shoving with all his might to escape the man's hold on him. Abruptly he altered his course of action, launching himself upwards with all of his core strength. The change took the man by surprise, and that brief second was all Bucky needed to get past his defenses and sink his teeth deep in the meat of the man's shoulder. 

The man cursed loudly and let go of his arm. The pain lessened slightly, the jet engine roar of it subsiding to a steady summer breeze. The man tried to shake him off, letting go of Bucky's pinned wrist as well. He got both hands on top of Bucky's head, tangled them in his hair, and pushed. Bucky dug his teeth in further, his jaw clenched and aching. 

They struggled back and forth for a long moment, the man pushing with all his strength and Bucky hanging on for all he was worth. He felt like a wild animal, something rabid that needed to be put down. Finally, he couldn't hold out any longer, his teeth no match for the man's brute strength. He fell backwards from the force of the shove, ripping fabric and skin away as he fell. 

He could taste blood in his mouth, slick and coppery. He was tired. The fight had probably lasted all of a minute, but it felt like years. The work they'd been doing the last couple of weeks had made him stronger, but it couldn't make up for a skill he just didn't have. A hand closed down on his throat, tightening until he couldn't breathe. The man leaned down, his foul breath hot on Bucky's face. The part of him that wasn't already struggling to breathe noted with some satisfaction that the man was careful to maintain a far enough distance from his teeth. 

"You're a fuckin' scrappy one, aren't you?" the man said, derision clear in his voice. His right eye was swollen shut, long pink scratches down his cheeks from Bucky's nails. Blood dripped from his shoulder. Bucky did the only thing left to him and spat in his face. Blood-tinged saliva dripped down the man's cheek and he gripped tighter. Bucky’s throat spasmed convulsively, body shrieking for air. 

"I'm gonna kill you," the man hissed, little flecks of spittle landing on Bucky's face. "And I'm gonna enjoy it. And then I'm gonna kill your friend. But don't worry." He patted Bucky's cheek with his other hand. "I think I'll keep your pretty little sister."

Rage burned hot and bright through him, obliterating everything else. He didn't feel the pain in his arm or the cartilage grinding together in his throat or the burning of his lungs. He howled in fury, and with a strength born from desperation, he rammed the top of his head directly into the man's face. 

Bucky felt the man's nose shatter and heard his muffled scream. The grip on his throat loosened, and at the same time Bucky brought his knee up between the man's legs. The man screeched incoherently and Bucky twisted out from beneath him. 

His attack bought him a few precious seconds, and hope surged within him as he scrambled across the kitchen floor, rough tile bruising his hands and knees. He reached the kitchen table in a mad dash, blood and other less pleasant things dripping from his arm, the bandage that had kept it tightly wrapped abandoned somewhere behind him. The gun was right there, right in front of him. He reached for it, and something grabbed him by the legs. He screamed in frustration as he was pulled back, the tips of his fingers just brushing against the cold metal.

The man was pinning him down, trying to climb over him to get to the gun first. Bucky gave one last desperate lunge and somehow managed to snag the gun. Hit after hit rained down on his back, jarring his spine as the man tried to stop him. Despite the man’s efforts, Bucky managed to flip in his grasp, and for an instant they were so close Bucky could see the whites of the man's frightened eyes. 

Then, in one swift motion, he brought the gun up between them and fired. 

It wasn't like in the movies. That was his first thought, after the ringing had faded from his ears and the white spots were gone from his vision. It wasn't like in the movies at all. Warm blood sprayed across his face, getting in his eyes, his mouth, his nose. The body of the man slumped down on top of him, crushing his ribcage beneath its bulk. 

He was frozen. Numb. The gun slipped from his fingers and clattered heavily onto the floor. He was trembling, buzzing out of his skin with terror and adrenaline. The dead man's face rolled to the side, the perfect little bullet hole through his forehead edged with powder burns. 

_Oh God_. 

He scrambled out from under the body, letting it thud heavily to the floor. He could still feel its smothering weight, see the glint of eyes in the dark, hear the grunts of exertion. Bucky's hands clenched; open, closed, open, closed. He couldn't stand still, he wanted to tear off his own skin. There was blood sprayed across the pristine kitchen, staining the cabinets and countertops a sick crimson. There was bits of the man's skull in there as well, and more that Bucky couldn't bring himself to think about. 

He couldn’t help it. He leaned over and vomited onto the stained tile. It was exactly like it had been at the ruins of the Bishop house and nothing like it all. This is something he did. He was responsible for the mess of bone and blood and gristle streaked across the floor. There was a dead man in his house, where he and Becca and Steve sleep and eat and live, and he had done that. 

He retched again, bile in his throat and nose, acrid and terrible. 

"Bucky!" 

Becca's voice. His head snapped up, the fog in his head lifting instantly as the gears in his mind shifted into overdrive. Becca was coming. He could hear her running through the house, getting closer every second. She was coming to find him and _oh God he couldn't let her see, don't let her see what you've done don't let her see-_

"Becca!" he bellowed, feet already rushing towards the entryway. Couldn't let her see the body. "Stay out there!"

He caught her at the threshold, wrapping his arms around her skinny shoulders and walking her backward, away from the macabre scene in the kitchen. 

“Are you okay?” she asked, words muffled by his shirt. “I heard a gunshot and I was scared you got shot and there’s blood on you, Bucky, did you get shot?” Her voice reached a fever pitch as she spoke, words tumbling over each other in her haste to get them up. 

“I’m okay,” he said. Gently, he pried her off his chest and held her at arm’s length, hands gripping her shoulders. “I’m okay, Becca, I swear.” He looked her firmly in the eye. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, hair tangled in a wild halo around her head and lips trembling as she spoke. “Yeah, I’m okay. I stayed in my room, I did, but then I heard- I’m sorry Bucky, I know you said to stay in my room, but I just couldn’t.”

“It’s fine,” he said and pulled her against him again, hugging her tight. “It’s fine, you’re okay,” he murmured into her hair, trying to convince himself just as much as he tried to convince her. At their feet Winter whined.

A muffled thump and the ear-splitting sound of shattering glass broke the stillness and he jerked to attention, his grip on her tightening involuntarily. 

Steve. 

Between the sheer terror of his encounter in the kitchen and the all-consuming relief that had followed at the sight of an unhurt Becca, he’d completely forgotten about Steve. “Shit!” he cursed. “Steve!”

Steve didn’t answer, but there was another crash from somewhere in the back of the house. “Fuck,” Bucky cursed. 

“Bucky,” Becca said, “you’re hurting me.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he said, releasing her from the vice grip of his arms. “I need to go help Steve.” He looked desperately around the room. He couldn’t let her go into the kitchen, couldn’t send her outside, couldn’t leave her here. What if there was someone else who would grab her the second she was alone? “Becca,” he said, finally coming to a decision, “I’m going to go find Steve. I need you to stay behind me no matter what, and if I tell you to run, you run.”

She nodded, eyes wide and scared, but mouth set in a determined grimace. He wanted nothing more than to grab her and run, every instinct was screaming at him to do it, but he had to help Steve. He ran through the house, not worried about how much noise he was making. The fight in the kitchen might as well have been a fucking parade for all the commotion they had made. 

Steve was in his parent’s room. Bucky burst through the door, registering the entire room in the half second it took him to look around. The window beside the bed was open, screen cut down the middle and curtains blowing gently in the night breeze. Brock Rumlow was lying passed out in the middle of the room, a nasty cut on his temple painting his face and neck red, and the shattered remnants of a vase scattered around him. And there, in the middle of the room, panting and blood dripping from both nostrils but gloriously alive, was Steve. 

Steve grunted as Bucky crashed into him, wincing under Bucky’s tight hug but hugging back all the same. The blood from his nose was drying rapidly on his upper lip and there was a nasty bruise forming on his jaw, but otherwise he was blessedly, wonderfully unhurt. He could hear Becca behind him, exclaiming over Steve’s injuries, and relief flooded through him. He wanted to cry. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, disentangling himself from Steve. Becca rushed in to take his place.

Steve spoke, chin resting on the top of Becca’s head as he ran a comforting hand down her back. “’m fine.” His eyes went wide as he registered Bucky’s appearance. “You’re covered in blood!”

“Not mine,” Bucky said grimly, pointing a meaningful look at the back of Becca’s head and Steve’s mouth snapped shut

He looked around the room. Every shadow was another assailant lying in wait to attack them again. Every breeze that blew past the curtain made him want to jump out of his skin. “You stay here,” he commanded Steve. “And don’t take your eyes off this fucker.” He aimed a light kick at Rumlow’s unconscious form. “Becca, stay with Steve and do whatever he says. I’m gonna go make sure there’s not any more of them.”

It took him less than five minutes to clear the house, working from back to front efficiently, a grim sort of purpose fueling him. He made a sweep of the front and back yards, walking as far out as the chicken coop and almost to the edge of the treeline before doubling back. On his way he ducked into the shed and grabbed a coil of rope. 

He paused as he passed the mirror hanging at the end of the hallway, his reflection stopping him cold. His hair was tangled and dark with blood, lip cracked and bleeding. Blood painted his skin and his eyes looked like black as pitch, sunken deep in his skull. He looked wild, like a feral animal. His fingers hovered hesitantly over his reflection. Was that him? Was that what this situation had made of him? All he’d wanted was to protect his sister, to keep her safe. He hadn’t wanted this. Never this. 

His fingers left a smear of bloody fingerprints on the mirror when he left. Steve and Becca were just where he’d left them. Steve had his gun trained on Rumlow, and Becca was behind him, clutching Winter’s fur like a security blanket. 

“Here.” He tossed the rope to Steve. “Tie him up before he wakes up.” He went over to Becca. She was swaying slightly on her feet, face pale. She looked as exhausted as he felt. “Hey,” he said softly. “I know you’re tired. I’m tired too. But I need you to do me a favor, Becs. Can you go out to the well? Get some water and maybe some towels. We need to clean up, okay?” She nodded solemnly and left, taking Winter with her. 

Steve was almost done when Bucky approached, dropping to his knees and helping Steve tie the final knots. Quietly, Steve said, “This that guy from earlier? I never got a good look.”

“It is. Motherfucker.” He yanked the rope enough to cut off blood flow. Rumlow deserved to lose a limb or two, if he lived at all. 

“And the blood?”

“He had a friend.” Steve very pointedly didn’t ask for clarification. “Let’s put him in the corner for now. Less room for him to move if he wakes up.”

They both grunted as they moved Rumlow’s dead weight. He was deceptively heavy for his wiry appearance. Bucky hadn’t noticed before, but Steve was heavily favoring his right side, wincing every few steps, and his breathes were shallow. They dropped Rumlow unceremoniously. Bucky took special satisfaction in the way that his head bounced off the wall. 

“You sure you’re alright?” he asked, straightening up. There was a bloody scrape on the side of Steve’s neck. Bucky reached for it, running his finger gently over the torn skin. Steve hissed but didn’t move away, eyes searching Bucky’s blood-stained face. 

“I’m fine,” Steve said, breaking whatever strange mood had settled over them. Bucky retracted his hand and fought the urge to tuck it into his pocket. “But what are we going to do with him?”

_Bury him with his friend where he can rot like he deserves._ And really, what were their choices? Rumlow knew where they lived, knew the layout of the house, and now they’d killed his friend. “We have to get rid of him.”

Steve looked at him sharply. “You’re saying-“

“We take him back in the woods and we shoot him.” His voice was harsh. He didn’t recognize it. 

“We don’t kill people, Bucky.”

“What do you think they were doing here, Steve?” He fixed his friend with a pointed stare. “Dropping by for a friendly chat? If Winter hadn’t woken me up they’d’ve shot us all in our sleep.”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve it,” Steve said calmly. “But if we kill him, then we’re just as bad as them.”

“You think I give a fuck? I’ll be whatever I need to be if it means I’m alive to protect Becca.”

“But she doesn’t just need you to protect her!” Steve snapped. “She needs you to be there for her as her big brother. As someone to look up to, as a role model. She needs you to show her that just because things are different now, it doesn’t mean she has to change who she is.”

“That’s great stuff, Steve, it really is.” His voice was a sarcastic snarl. He could feel his blood rising, rushing through his ears. “But none of that matters if she’s fucking dead.”

“That’s not the point and you know it.” Steve was getting frustrated now. Bucky could hear it in his tone, see it in the stiff line of his shoulders. “I’m your friend and I’m not gonna stand by and watch you do something you’re gonna regret.”

Bucky laughed, sharp and hollow. “I already shot one man tonight, you really think one more makes a difference?”

“That was self-defense. This is an execution.”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters! It’s the thing that separates us from them.”

“No, it’s the thing that keeps us safe from them.”

He’d had enough. Maybe Steve had a point, but the time for moral righteousness had passed a long time ago. It had vanished into smoke the second someone had detonated that bomb and condemned them to a life of fighting over scraps just to survive. He held out the gun in front of him, his hands sure and steady. He knew what he had to do.

He stopped short when Steve stepped in front of him, blocking his view of Rumlow. The muzzle butted up against his chest but Steve stood unflinching. “Bucky,” he pleaded, hands reaching out for him. “Stop and think about what you’re about to do. Please.”

“You want me to think?” Bucky didn’t lower the gun and Steve didn’t step back. They were at an impasse. “All I do is think! I think about everything so no one else has to! Food and water and insulin, my parents, Becca, you. I think about all of that! Me! So what fucking right do you have to question me?”

“I know, Bucky, I know, and I’m so sorry.” Steve’s hands were on his shoulders now, his neck, his arms. The gun glinted coldly between them. “You’ve been doing so much, and I should have helped more. And I will, but please don’t do this. If you do this, it will eat you alive. I know it will. I know you, and this will rip you apart.”

His laugh was like broken glass. “You don’t know me. You never did. You proved that a long time ago.”

“I’m sorry I made you feel that way, Bucky, I am, I-“

“I don’t get to feel things,” Bucky spat angrily. “I can’t. Because if I let myself feel this, I’ll start screaming and I’ll never stop and I can’t do that because she needs me.”

“Bucky-“

“Get out of my way, Steve.” 

He tried to push past Steve at the same time that Steve grabbed hold of him. They were going to fight, he realized. His fingers spasmed on the butt of the gun and suddenly there was the oddest feeling of weightlessness, of floating. 

He didn’t remember anything after that.


	12. Chapter 12

Bucky opened his eyes. It was hard, harder than it should have been. His vision swam, sliding in and out of focus, until finally he realized he was looking up at his bedroom ceiling. Same old crooked ceiling fan, same old water stain in the corner. There was soft fabric beneath him and a pillow under his head. A low buzzing filled his ears and his mouth tasted like low tide. He tried to move, to sit up, but found his muscles unresponsive. Like a rag doll stuffed with fabric and sewn together from mismatched parts.

"Wha-" he tried to say. His mouth and throat were full of cotton, lips cracked and dry. He coughed, and it was like swallowing needles.

"Bucky?!"

 _Steve_. That voice, it had been Steve. But how had Steve known where to find him, trapped in the dirt and the muck? He tried to shake his head, shake off the dream, and his stiff muscles groaned their complaints.

And then Steve was there, hovering anxiously above him, haloed by the soft light coming in through the open window. "Bucky?" he asked again.

Oh. That meant he should answer, didn't it. "Wha- What happened?"

Steve just stared down at him, eyes wet and shiny like he was holding back tears. His relief was palpable, and Bucky struggled to remember just what had happened. He'd... he'd been...  
And then, just like that, Steve was all business, deft hands at Bucky's forehead, his wrist, his neck. For just a moment, Bucky didn't see Steve, but Steve’s mother smiling at him in her scrubs as she returned from another shift at the hospital.

"How are you feeling?" He was just Steve again, but Bucky still saw hints of Sarah Rogers in the way that Steve felt for his pulse, lips tight with concentration.

"Like I got run over by a tank." His voice came out in a whisper, but at least he didn't cough.

"I'm not surprised. You've been out for almost two weeks."

 _"What?"_ And this time he did launch into a coughing fit, each spasm tearing at his throat like knives.

"Let me get you some water," Steve said, frowning. He hurried across the room and Bucky heard the sound of a glass clinking and then the trickle of water.

Bucky closed his eyes as sleep threatened to take him again. Thoughts wandered at random through his mind. What had he been doing? Something important, he was sure. The memory was there, just beyond his grasp, a fluttering light that he couldn't quite pin down. It had been dark, he knew that, and there had been... blood. A lot of it, and a gun, and Steve, and...

The realization was like being dunked in a tank of icy water. He struggled to sit up, trying to prop himself up on his elbows. His left arm wouldn't bend properly but he made it work. "What happened to Rumlow?" he asked urgently.

Steve’s back was to him but it was impossible to miss how visibly he tensed at the question. His shoulders, the muscles in his back, the line of his neck- they were all strung tight like a bowstring about to snap. When he finally answered, his voice was calm. "Taken care of."

His tone brooked no argument, and besides, Bucky couldn't deny the relief that swept through his bone-weary body. His elbows were shaking with the strain of holding himself up, and he gladly let himself collapse back onto the bed. He could hear Steve's heavy footsteps as he crossed the room.

"Here," he said, kneeling by the bed and putting the cup of water down onto the nightstand. He got his arms around Bucky's back, helping prop him up so he could drink without choking. It was almost like a hug, and Bucky resisted the urge to melt into it and close his eyes.

Keeping one arm wrapped around Bucky's back, Steve reached for the water with the other and held it to Bucky's lips. Even with the help, being upright was draining, and Bucky found his muscles trembling with fatigue after just a few seconds. Despite Steve's best efforts to hold the cup steady, most of the water ended up dribbling down Bucky's chin and soaking into the collar of his shirt.

"Sorry," Steve murmured, taking the cup away and helping him sit back again. "I'll go grab you another shirt."

Bucky tried to wave the apology away, but his left arm was slow and sluggish. He turned his head slowly to look at it. It was swathed in bandages that were much cleaner than the ones he remembered. And it didn't hurt. Unfortunately, he discovered as he tried to tense his forearm, it didn't do much of anything else either.

Steve saw him looking. "You had an infection. A really bad one. I guess when we were arguing about Rumlow, your body had finally had enough. You just collapsed. Scared the absolute shit out of me too."

"I'm sorry," Bucky rasped out in his scratchy voice.

Steve eyes were dark, like a shadow passing over the sun. "The fever was- it was bad. I thought-" He swallowed heavily. "I didn't think you were going to make it."

Bucky stared, unsure of what to make of that. He had felt death creeping up on him several times that night, but he figured it would be by gunshot, not fever.

"I did my best to clean it out, but it had spread so much..." Steve’s mouth twisted to the side, like the words left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. "I think you've probably got some pretty bad nerve damage."

It was too much for his tired brain to process. Nerve damage. But what exactly did that mean? Would his arm be useless? It seemed pretty useless now, but maybe it just wasn't finished healing yet. Would he still be able to work in the garden, hold a gun, hug his sister?

_His sister._

"Becca!" he gasped out her name. He forgot about his arm entirely in the ensuing fight to get up. "Where's Becca?" Steve hesitated, and that small second was all it took for Bucky to panic. _"Steve, where is Becca?"_

If he could have grabbed Steve and shaken the answer out of him he would have. Each second that passed without an answer was excruciating. Finally Steve said carefully, "Buck, you've been out for awhile. The... the insulin- it's not working like it-"

Bucky was already up and out of bed, lurching towards the door on legs that hadn't been used in almost two weeks. They threatened to fold under him with every shaky step but he didn't care. Nothing mattered but Becca. He had to get to Becca. God, why hadn't he remembered sooner? She was his sister for fuck's sake, and he had been lying there worried about Rumlow and his own fucking arm when he should have been worrying about her.

Their rooms were just down the hall from one another, and as a teenager he had lamented endlessly over how close they were. Now he was thankful. It was only a few staggering steps until he was there, dropping down to his knees beside her bed.

"Becca," he said, resting a shaky hand on her forehead. She was hot to the touch, skin dry and lips chapped, long hair lank and lifeless. "Becca," he said again, and moved his hand to her shoulder, shaking her, "Becca. Becs!" He was pleading for her to answer, but she remained still.

There were footsteps and the rustling of fabric, and then Steve was kneeling next to him. He held out an arm surreptitiously and Bucky gladly leaned against him, letting part of his weight fall against Steve's side. Bucky ran his hand gently over Becca's face, her dry, cracked lips and delicate nose, brushed little wisps of hair back from her forehead. He looked desperately at Steve.

Steve either couldn't, or wouldn't, look him in the eyes. His face was creased in worry, exhaustion writ in every line. "She started getting worse a few days after you collapsed," he said quietly. “Fast. I think the insulin's completely spoiled." He took a deep breath as Bucky continued to run his fingers through Becca's hair, carefully picking apart the tangles. "I went into town last week. I thought maybe there was a chance that someone might have some, but... it's _bad_ , Bucky. I found the pharmacy, but it was completely gutted. I searched the whole damn building. Got lucky and found some old antibiotics for you, but- no insulin. I looked everywhere, I swear."

Bucky bit his lip and felt the healing scar where Rumlow's friend had punched him. "How long has she been like this?" He sounded ten thousand times calmer than he felt. He wanted to scream, to cry, to punch something, but none of that would help Becca. He had to be rational now, for her.

"Slipping in and out for about a week now. The last few days it's been mostly out."

Bucky couldn't take his eyes off of her. She was still as death, her chest rising and falling so shallowly he was scared he was only imagining it. He put his head down and listened to the flutter of her heart in her chest. He could smell her breath from here; it was sweet, fruity. He fought back hard against the tears that sprang to his eyes. He wasn't stupid, he knew what that meant. Her body was resorting to alternative sources of nutrients in a vain attempt to fuel her heart and brain, to keep her alive just a little while longer. This was end-stage.

“I- I can find something. I will, I’ve just gotta-“ He faltered, unsure. There was something he could do, there had to be. He couldn’t just sit here watching as Becca’s body destroyed itself from the inside out. It wasn’t fair. She was smart and beautiful and kind and good, and it wasn’t fucking fair none of it why would the universe let him keep going and take her it wasn’t fair it wasn’t-

Steve had him then, arms wrapped around him, rocking him back and forth gently as they knelt on the floor by Becca’s bed. Bucky was babbling, tears running down his face. He hadn’t even realized he’d been saying anything out loud. Steve was talking too. He had Bucky seized tight, head held protectively against his chest as he murmured what Bucky supposed were comforting words; a steady litany, low and humming and familiar, like a Catholic mass. 

“I’m sorry, Bucky, I’m so, so sorry. I know it’s not fair. I know and I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Bucky remembered another day. That first day when the steady hum of Steve’s voice had wrapped him up safe and tight and wanted as he cried over his parents. And now here, he was crying over his sister. Bucky wondered who’d be taken from him next. 

Eventually his tears petered out to nothing but the occasional sniffle. He felt raw, like an exposed nerve, torn open and held up for the entire world to see and touch and hurt. Steve had released him at some point, but kept a hand on his back, rubbing circles over the soft fabric of his t-shirt. He looked as tired as Bucky felt. 

“Thank you,” Bucky whispered. His eyes were on Becca but he spoke to Steve. “Taking care of both of us by yourself must have been hard.”

Steve did him the courtesy of not lying to make him feel better. He only nodded, acknowledging the truth of Bucky’s words.

“I’m gonna stay here,” Bucky said quietly. “With her. For as long as I can.”

 

\---

 

In the end, he stayed beside her for three days. Steve helped him move enough pillows and blankets into the room to build a makeshift bed on the floor, but even so, he spent most of his time sitting cross-legged beside her; holding her hand, brushing back her hair and gently removing any tangles, making sure she was comfortable when she was awake, and watching over her when she wasn’t. It was like Steve had said, she spent more time asleep than awake, and even then she sometimes woke up confused and disoriented. But the first time that she had opened her eyes and saw Bucky, her smile was so bright it could have rivaled the sun. 

It didn’t last though. Her blood sugar was high and it stayed that way, no matter how much insulin they gave her. Soon it was above 600, rising more with every hour, and no amount of insulin could change it. It was like chipping away at a mountain with nothing but a chisel. He’d been expecting it, but nothing could have prepared him for the moment when they realized further injections would do nothing. It was a bullet to the heart, shredding his insides, lodging itself in his gut, and twisting him until he didn’t recognize himself. He’d been a big brother since he was six, a son until he was twenty-two. What was he now?

He wasn’t sure it mattered. 

The symptoms, when they came, were like an avalanche, pouring over each other, compounding, adding and subtracting bits and pieces of her. Thirst that couldn’t be quenched no matter how much water they gave her, constant urination, raging infections that wracked her already fragile body with fever. Her body was failing. Bucky wanted to scream. But he couldn’t- wouldn’t- let himself do that. Becca was who mattered now, not his own damn feelings, no matter what they might be. He had to be there for her, had to be strong so that she didn’t have to be.

He spent most of the time that she was awake talking softly to her, arms around her as he propped her weak body up against his chest. Winter wrapped around her feet, whining and snuffling until Becca petted a frail hand through her fur. She clutched at her old ratty rabbit like a lifeline, and he made sure that his old bear was never far from her reach. 

He talked to her about their childhoods, about old friends they’d had back in Brooklyn and days spent in outside in the summer or inside by the fire during winter. He talked about the move to Indiana, the fear of starting over in an unfamiliar place, and the joy of crisp fall nights spent outside on the porch with their parents. She spent a lot of the time he talked sleeping, but that didn’t matter. He wanted her to know that he’d be there beside her when she woke, always.

On the morning of the third day he woke to Steve shaking him by the shoulder. The pale pink sky he could see out the window told him that the sun was only just coming up, and the air was cooler than it had been all month. Fall would come soon. 

Steve didn’t have to say anything; one look at his face and Bucky knew. He got up silently, shaking off the haze of sleep. Steve helped him to his feet. He was still weaker than he’d like to be, but getting better everyday, which was irony of the worst kind. His arm was another matter entirely, numb in places, the muscles in his hand and forearm slow to respond and clumsy when they did.

Becca’s breathing was shallow, her breath still sickly sweet. She was burning with fever, hot to the touch, and her eyes were glassy. But at least she was awake. Bucky settled back against the headboard and pulled her to him. She weighed nothing, bones as fragile as a butterfly’s wings, skin dry and tight. Her lips were cracked and bleeding, but she’d stopped drinking almost a day ago. Steve approached and leaned down to whisper in her ear. His voice was a soft murmur, and Bucky looked away while he spoke, not interested in eavesdropping. The conversation was theirs and he wouldn’t interrupt it.

Outside, dawn was approaching quickly. He could see it in the steadily brightening sky and hear it in the snatches of morning birdsong. It didn’t seem right for the day to be so beautiful when such an ugly thing was happening. It ought to have been pouring, black thunderclouds and cracking lightning. It was like the world didn’t care at all that his sister was dying. The thought made him bitter, but he bit it back, held it down deep. Not today.

After a moment more Steve straightened up, laying a tender kiss on her forehead. He put a hand to the back of Bucky’s neck, squeezing gently, and the gesture was soothing and reassuring all at once. Then he left the room completely, leaving the siblings alone.

“Hey, Becs,” he whispered, tucking her hair behind her ears.

“Bucky.” Her voice was barely there, a wisp on the wind that would soon be blown away. “Are you okay?”

He was crying, soundless tears running down his cheeks. It seemed like all he did now was cry. And what a thing, for Becca to have to ask him if _he_ was okay, like he was the one who mattered here.

He took her hand, feeling the bones and tendons standing out under the skin. He remembered her as a baby; she’d been delicate then too, a tiny, screaming slip of a thing. “I’m fine, Becs. Don’t worry about me.”

“You always worry about everyone else. Someone has to worry about you.”

The tears came faster and he didn’t try to stop them. Her eyes were on fixed on the window. The breeze coming in through the curtains smelled of fresh flowers. “I don’t think I’m scared anymore,” she said.

“You’re a Barnes,” he said, “Barnes’ are never scared. We’re tough, remember?”

She nodded and her eyes closed, too tired to hold them open any longer.

“Hey,” he said. “Do you remember the first time Mom let me drive you somewhere after I got my license. You were so excited…”

He talked, recounting the story as he held her in his arms. Eventually Steve returned and put a hand on his shoulder. “Buck,” he said softly, “she’s-“

“I know.” He had felt her slip away before he’d even begun.


	13. Chapter 13

Bucky walked as if in a dream. The world parted around him, and he moved through it as it flowed, under and around and above, never touching anything, content to be in that place forever.

They decided to bury her right away. It was a practical decision, he supposed. The ability to preserve a body- _a body, that’s what she was now, just a body_ \- to wait days in between death and a funeral had died along with everything else in the world. And besides, it was still a beautiful day outside. Becca would like that.

Winter followed him to the shed, whining like she was hurt. He knew how she felt. There was a shovel there, old and rusty but sturdy, and he grabbed it. Steve took the one beside it and Bucky stopped.

“No,” he said. His tone was flat, but he couldn’t find it in himself to be anything else. “I’m doing this. I have to.”

Steve looked between Bucky and the shovel in his own hand and seemed to contemplate his next words carefully. “She was my sister too.”

Bucky swallowed hard, the lump in his throat now a permanent fixture, and didn’t say anything else about it. Steve followed him through the yard, past the fence and down to the spot that Becca had claimed as her own. It was a nice place on a small hill, more a slight bump on the flat landscape than anything else. There was a tree nearby whose leafy branches swayed in the breeze, and the grass was thick and soft underfoot.

The dirt beneath was hard and compact from the summer heat, and the work was back-breaking. Sweat poured down Bucky’s face, stinging his eyes, as his still-weak body shrieked in agony. _Good_ , he thought. Let the screaming of his muscles drown out the screaming in his mind. His arm wouldn’t cooperate and his grip on the shovel was tenuous, but he forced it to work. It was his arm and it was healing and he hated himself for it. It wasn’t fair that he had healed and Becca hadn’t.

He didn’t take any breaks and neither did Steve, the two of them working side-by-side in silence as the sun slipped further across the sky. Hot noon came and went. Turned out digging a hole big enough for a human body was harder work than he’d imagined. It seemed right somehow though, like a penance he needed to pay.

Blisters formed and burst open on his palms until the handle of the shovel was slick with his own blood and bits of skin. He ignored it. Didn’t matter. The hole got deeper and wider, until eventually Steve put aside his shovel. Bucky kept digging, hands slipping on the bloody handle until Steve pulled it from his grasp.

They’d wrapped her in a sheet, arms folded across her chest and Bucky’s childhood bear tucked lovingly in her grasp. He’d kept the rabbit. It took the both of them to carry her from the house. Bucky was sure that he wasn’t doing his full share of the work, but Steve took up the slack without comment. They laid her beside the freshly dug grave and Bucky stared into it. It was deep and dark, like the maw of some kind of monster. Becca didn’t belong in there. She belonged in the sun, flowers woven into her hair and a smile on her face. He couldn’t do it, couldn’t put her in there _couldn’t do it couldn’t couldn’t do it-_

Steve’s hand was on his face, cupping his cheek. Steve’s sad eyes were looking into his. Bucky wondered what he saw. “Come on, Buck,” he said softly.

They lowered her down and shoveled dirt back into the hole. It was messy. He was tired and covered in dirt and grime, his back ached and his arms burned. It was nothing more than he deserved. Steve fashioned a rough wooden cross out of scrap wood and a few nails, and they stuck it deep in the earth and surrounded it with wildflowers picked from the fields. Bucky looked down at the grave, at all that was left of his sister.

It wasn’t enough.

“Do you want to say something?” Steve asked him.

He didn’t answer and Steve nodded, leaving him be as he knelt and murmured a quiet prayer. He stood when he was done and hesitated before walking away, leaving Bucky alone with the grave.

He sat cross-legged on the freshly turned earth. If there was something he was supposed to say it wouldn’t come to him. Besides, what would it even be? _I’m sorry, I should have been a better brother, a better role model, a better… everything._ The sun continued on its track, gliding through the sky until it slipped back down past the horizon. It grew dark around him; birds stopped their song and went to sleep while the crickets woke and chirped in the darkness. The day had gone by without him. His cheeks were dry, mouth drawn tight. Numb. He figured it was better than the alternative.

The sun had been gone for almost two full hours by the time he finally got up and walked back to the house. A cool breeze twined gently through his hair and across his face, and he was sticky with dried sweat. Steve was waiting on the porch, head in his hands and staring off into the middle distance. He stood as soon as he saw Bucky.

“I made us some dinner,” he said. “Come on inside, you need to eat.”

Bucky walked past him like he wasn’t even there.

“Buck!” he heard behind him, but it wasn’t anything to pay attention to. Just meaningless sounds that had nothing to do with him.

He was on a single-minded mission, like a hunting dog chasing down prey, but what he was looking for was a much easier catch. There, in the corner of the living room, was his father’s expensive liquor cabinet. It was one of the few luxuries George Barnes had allowed himself. The wood was dark mahogany, finely crafted, and he had filled it over the years with all sorts of things. Bucky had known the combination since he was twelve, and he and Steve used to steal sips of peach schnapps back in Brooklyn. The first time he’d ever gotten drunk was because of this cabinet. His first hangover too.

“Bucky.” Steve caught up with him just as he was pulling open a heavy wooden door. “Bucky, you really shouldn’t drink. You’ve been so sick and you’re still on the antibiotics, and besides-“

Bucky grabbed the first thing he saw, a full bottle of vodka. Something top-shelf, with a fancy label he didn’t recognize. Whatever, it would work just the same. He tore off the cover, popped out the cork with his right hand while the bottle shook in his left. The first drink burned going down, but the next one was easier.

Steve followed him back out into the night, hovering behind him like a worried shadow as Bucky took a seat on the steps and held the bottle to his lips again. “I know everything feels horrible right now, but you’re recovering from a really serious infection, and you’re still not healthy. Drinking is just a really bad idea at the moment.”

* * *

Bucky took another swig. The taste was inconsequential as long as it got the job done. The woods were dark, the trees nothing more than indistinguishable blurs from where he sat. Becca was out there by herself. He had left her there. He hoped the alcohol would work faster but he was numb even to that.

“Steve,” he said, and immediately Steve stopped his rant about Bucky’s health. “Sit down and drink with me or go the fuck away.”

There was silence for a moment, and then a heavy sigh. It wasn’t what Steve had wanted to hear, but Bucky didn’t really care. Bucky hadn’t wanted any of this, but here it was. Steve could learn to deal. The wooden planks creaked and groaned as Steve settled beside him on the top step. Bucky passed him the bottle and Steve took a wary glance at the label before taking a hearty swig of his own. He coughed and grimaced, then took another drink before handing it back over.

“I want it on the record that I said this is a bad idea,” he muttered.

“Fuck it,” Bucky said. This mouthful went down smoother than any of the ones before it. His ears buzzed dully. “It’s the end of the world. One drink ain’t gonna kill me.”

“It’s not the end of the world.”

“Sure it is. Least the one we grew up in is, and I don’t think it’s ever coming back. No one’s coming. If the government could help they would have by now, so that means they’re just as fucked as the rest of us. Either that or they _can_ help and they’ve chosen not to, in which case we’re still fucked.” He held up the bottle in a macabre imitation of a toast. His head was hazy and his limbs were loose, like boats that had come unmoored from the dock. “So bottoms up, I say.”

Steve was hunched over, arms wrapped around his knees like a little kid. It looked strange on someone his size. “You can’t think like that if we want to survive. You have to have a little hope.”

“I don’t have to do anything Steve,” Bucky said, voice harsh. “I had one thing, one _fucking_ thing that I- and I failed at it. So fuck survival.”

“You didn’t fail, Buck, there was nothing else you could have done.”

“Yeah, well, there should have been.” His voice was bitter. He took another drink.

“Listen,” Steve said, “I know that-“

“Shut up, Steve,” Bucky whispered miserably, hanging his head, half-empty bottle held loose in his hand. “Just shut up. Please. I buried my fucking sister today. Either drink with me or just leave me alone. Please.”

To his surprise he felt the bottle being plucked out of his grasp, and when he looked up, Steve had it held nearly upside down as he took a drink so long that Bucky worried he’d run out of air. Even for someone Steve’s size it was a lot of vodka, but Bucky supposed that was kind of the point. Besides, he was just following Bucky’s example. Steve wiped his mouth and handed the bottle back wordlessly. Their fingers brushed and Bucky snuck a look at Steve’s face; at the lines of stress marring his features and the exhaustion that clouded his eyes. He had suffered too. Sometimes Bucky forgot that. 

“I’m sorry about your mom,” he said quietly. Steve gave him a curious look but stayed silent, leaning back against the railing. “I didn’t know- what happened. I wish I had. I would’ve come, even if you never wanted to talk to me again. I would’ve come.” 

Words were easier with the alcohol burning in his veins, warming him from the inside out. He’d been so cold for so long and he hadn’t even realized it. 

“It’s fine-“ Steve started, but Bucky interrupted him before he could get any further. 

“No, it’s not fine. I should’ve been there. You needed-“ He stopped and took the bottle. “I should’ve been there.”

Steve slumped further against the railing, loose-limbed and sprawling. “It’s my fault you weren’t,” he said. And wasn’t that just like him, taking all the blame and not leaving any for anybody else. “I’m the one who stopped answering your calls,” he continued. “I’m the one who didn’t text you back. Worst fucking decision I ever made.”

Bucky was hard-pressed not to agree with him, so instead of saying anything he just passed the alcohol. Steve took another long pull, barely even grimacing at the taste. “God, Buck, I missed you every day. Every fucking day. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s over,” Bucky said, and the words came out strange and slurred. The world was pleasantly fuzzy at the edges, like he was looking at everything through a film of water. “Can’t change it, so don’t apologize.”

Steve was looking up. The sky was clear, the moon a waning crescent, and stars were everywhere. Bucky had thought he’d seen them all when he first moved here, but it was nothing compared to this. 

“You know I almost didn’t come?” Steve said. His speech was sluggish, or maybe Bucky’s ears were just slow. “I almost canceled a thousand times. Even after the plane landed, I thought, ‘what if I just turned around?’” He laughed. “Seems stupid now.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Steve’s smile was small, a little wistful. “I wanted to see you. I don’t know. I think maybe I thought that if I saw you and I didn’t feel those things for you anymore, I could finally forget about it. Put the whole thing to bed.” Bucky nodded and the world tilted dangerously on its axis. Steve took another drink before continuing. “I just couldn’t do it. I saw you and it was like… like I was sixteen years old again. Every fucking feeling came back, just like that. God, I wanted to kiss you.”

“So why didn’t you?” The statement should have surprised him, should have made him feel giddy, confused, angry, something, but the alcohol was like a shock absorber. Everything was just a little bit gentler through its haze. 

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Would you have let me?”

“Probably not. I hated you.” Steve’s eyes went wide. Bucky had always been blunt, and being drunk had a habit of accentuating it. “It hurt so much when we stopped talking. I thought I’d done something wrong. I thought it was my fault and I hated myself so much for it. And I was like that for… a long time. Eventually I got tired of hating myself and started hating you instead, for doing that to me.” He chuckled, even though the situation was far from funny. “I thought I’d gotten over it, but-“ He shrugged. “-guess I hadn’t.”

Steve was quiet for a minute, and Bucky wondered if he was going to apologize again. “Yeah,” he finally said, “you were kind of a dick when I got here.”

The answer was so unexpected that Bucky couldn’t help himself; he burst out laughing. It felt strange, like at some point he had forgotten how to. “Hey! I think I deserve at least a little slack. You did break my heart after all.”

“Yeah, well,” Steve shrugged, “that doesn’t give you carte blanche to be an entitled douche.”

“God, we’re a fucking mess,” Bucky said, laughing. Now that he’d started, he didn’t want to stop, and especially when Steve joined him. He laughed so hard he doubled over, abdomen aching from the strain. It was like that day on the road outside of town after he’d almost been shot. At some point during their conversation he’d scooted closer to Steve, and now he leaned heavily on him, both of them shaking in amusement. 

He laughed and laughed, and at some point the tears of mirth pouring down his cheeks turned into real tears and messy, hiccupping coughs. It seemed that crying was all he was capable of these days. But this time, instead of Steve holding him, comforting him, it’s him with his arm around Steve. They clutched at each other, not quite a hug but something else, something desperate and lonely and wanting. Moonlight glinted off the empty bottle as it rolled beside Bucky. He sobbed, hard and ugly.

Steve was warm, like the tears on Bucky’s face and the alcohol burning through him. He was lightheaded and fuzzy. A cool wind blew across his face. Summer would be coming to an end soon, and everything else would end with it. “I can’t,” he moaned, voice muffled where his face was buried into Steve’s shirt.

Steve tightened his grip on him, the vodka making his fingers rough and clumsy. “Can’t what?”

“I can’t leave her out there,” he said. “I can’t Steve, I can’t.”

“I know,” Steve said. “I don’t want to either.”

It was too much. All of it, too much, and there he was buzzing out of his own skin, the taste and feel of cotton in his mouth, his eyes burning and jaw aching from being clenched and-

And then, like a flip somewhere had been switched, he was kissing Steve. He hadn’t been aware of a conscious decision to do it, but once he started he couldn’t figure out why he’d ever stopped. Steve responded enthusiastically and Bucky melted into him. Steve’s lips were soft and warm, the fingers he had wrapped around the nape of Bucky’s neck wonderfully possessive.

The kiss was drunken and sloppy, more teeth and tongues and bumping into each other than anything else, but it was perfect. He clutched at Steve, pulling him in even closer, and Steve moaned into his mouth. The sound sent little lightning bolts down his spine, lighting up his nerves, making his fingertips tingle. He could feel himself getting hard.

A little noise of surprise escaped him when he felt Steve’s tongue touch his lips, asking for entry. He felt the curve of Steve’s lips as he smiled at the sound as Bucky opened his mouth. Steve’s tongue was warm and soft, just like the rest of him, and Bucky wrapped his own around it. Neither of them fought to be in control of the kiss, instead simply reveling in the feeling of one another.

They stayed like that for a while, falling into a wonderful rhythm that went straight to Bucky’s cock, which was now fully hard, straining against his jeans. Steve’s fingers found their way into his hair and wrapped around the long strands. When he pulled, sparks lit up in Bucky’s belly and he moaned. In retaliation, he worked a hand under Steve’s shirt and raked his nails across the hard plane of his back. If Steve’s response was anything to go by, it was definitely something he’d have to try again.

It still wasn’t enough; he needed to be closer. Steve was reclined partially against the porch railing with Bucky leaning over him. Bucky nudged his legs until he got the point and readjusted himself, long legs out in front of him. Bucky crawled the half a foot of distance between them, planting himself firmly in Steve’s lap. He pressed as close as he could. He could feel the long, hard line of Steve’s cock through his jeans.

“Wait.” Steve broke off the kiss, leaving both of them panting, faces a hairsbreadth from each other. Bucky made a noise of displeasure and tried to move back in. He wanted to keep kissing Steve, didn’t even want to stop kissing Steve. “Wait,” Steve repeated and pulled back. 

“You’re drunk, Bucky. I’m drunk. We shouldn’t, not like this. Not after today.”

The thought of it- of stopping was unbearable. Bucky needed this. “Please, Steve,” he pleaded with him, his voice vulnerable and desperate, but for once he didn’t care. “Please, I need this. I need you.” He took a deep, shuddery breath. “I’m so tired and I don’t want to think anymore, please, just let me not think for awhile.”

Steve’s face twisted momentarily in pain, like the words hurt to hear. But that momentary hesitation was all there was before Steve was kissing him again. And this time there was nothing gentle or exploratory about it. He kept one hand wound through Bucky’s hair and pulled tight, using his hold to tip Bucky’s head and control the kiss. With his other hand he gripped Bucky’s jaw, controlling him further. He was stuck tight in Steve’s grasp and it was perfect. It was everything he needed. Steve had heard his words and answered accordingly, taking over and thinking for the both of them.

Their bodies were flush against each other, and each place they touched burned hot and bright. Bucky’s cock throbbed and he ground down with his hips, eliciting a throaty moan from Steve. Bucky swallowed the sound and ground down again, pleased at the way Steve canted his hips to maximize the friction.

“Shirt,” he gasped against Steve’s mouth. They pulled apart long enough for both of them to yank their t-shirts over their heads. Bucky took a moment to admire Steve’s chest; the sleek, slim lines of his torso and the smoothness of his skin where the moonlight made it glow a soft, burnished gold. Bucky’s hair was a wild tangle from Steve’s fingers. Steve reached out and brushed back a piece, tucking it tenderly behind Bucky’s ear and _no no that was no good made him of think of Becca he didn’t want to think about her didn’t want to think about anything-_

He wrapped his arms around Steve’s back, raked the nails of both hands across the skin with more pressure than he had before. Steve hissed but didn’t pull away, just reached out to kiss Bucky again and _good yes that helped._ Without warning, Steve suddenly pulled back, leaving Bucky’s lips bereft and he let out a soft whine. Steve chuckled, a deep throaty sound that made Bucky shiver, and dropped his head to Bucky’s chest, mouthing at a nipple. The whine turned into a gasp as Steve bit down, hard enough to hurt. The pain was exquisite, everything he’d been wanting and needing and he couldn’t help but writhe as Steve sucked and bit and nipped. He moved to the other side, leaving a shiny trail of saliva across Bucky’s chest as Bucky clawed at his back, his neck, his hips, anything to give him traction or something to hold on to.

He could feel Steve’s racing pulse at his neck and in his cock where he pushed against it. While Steve continued to work at his chest, Bucky fumbled with the button of Steve’s jeans. The alcohol made him clumsy, and the desperation only made it worse. Finally he got it open and pulled down the zipper, pulling at Steve’s briefs with it. Steve’s cock sprang free, hard and red, leaking slightly at the tip.

Bucky took it in his clumsy grasp. It was bigger than he remembered, but then again Steve himself was bigger now too. But the feel of it, the slight curve, the way Steve gasped against his chest as he stroked it experimentally- all of that he remembered perfectly. He’d dreamed about it; first, after their first time together, as something he missed and wanted more of, and then, after they’d lost contact, as something he’d never have again. He’d fucked people since then, because after all, even if he had been heartbroken he was still young and horny. Even had a few short relationships, but nothing that mattered. Nothing that compared to the feel of Steve in his hand, the salt-copper-earth smell of him in his nose, the intimate noises they made in his ears.

Bucky continued to stroke him, building up a steady, more confident rhythm, and Steve finally laid off his nipples, puffy and tender from the ministrations.

“Fuck,” Steve gasped, his eyes glazed over with sex and drunkenness. “Can I fuck you?”

“God, yes,” Bucky said, already fumbling at his own jeans. He undid them in record time compared to how he’d handled Steve’s. Regrettably, he had to leave his seat on Steve’s lap to pull them off along with his underwear, but it gave Steve time to yank his own further down.

He sat again and kissed Steve hard, pressing their bodies as close together as they would go. His cock was trapped between them alongside Steve’s, and every minute twitch of their bodies resulted in the most delicious friction. There were sparks dancing along his nerves, with everything lit up like a Christmas tree. His bruised chest ached and he reveled in it, moving more forcefully against Steve, faster and harder.

Steve nipped at his bottom lip and Bucky opened on command. Their tongues twined together as they rocked against each other.

“Wait,” Steve said, pulling their lips apart. Bucky had to suppress the immediate twinge of annoyance. Hadn’t they already been through this? He knew he was drunk and he didn’t care. He was certain they’d be doing this if they were sober as well. “Do you have anything?”

Bucky blinked at the question. It took him out of the moment and he resented it. The fuzzy, pleasant haze of alcohol receded from his mind a bit and he willed it back. Wasn’t that just like Steve too, to worry about something like that at a time like this. “Condoms?” he asked exasperated, words still slurred into something just this side of comprehensible.. “I’m clean. I assume you’re clean. Besides, the world’s gone to shit, what’s a little syphilis between friends?”

It said something that Steve didn’t argue, just went right back to kissing him like they’d never stopped. This time it was Bucky who pulled away. He held his fingers to Steve’s mouth and Steve obeyed without a word, sucking on them and getting them wet. Bucky pulled them out with a little pop and then lifted up on his knees and reached around behind himself. Steve watched the whole thing with hooded eyes, his cock twitching in interest.

There was resistance at first. It had been a long time since he’d fucked anyone, and all the tension on stress probably wasn’t helping either. But eventually his two fingers popped in past the ring of muscle and he sank them deep into himself. The stretch burned. He was used to doing this particular part with lube, not spit, but he was past the point of caring about the pain. He welcomed it. It gave his mind something to focus on.

He withdrew his fingers only to plunge them in again, and again. He stretched himself as much as he could, twisting his fingers this way and that until they brushed against his prostate, that sensitive bundle of nerves that made him yelp and his cock jump where it lay against his thigh.

His thighs trembled with the strain of holding himself in that position for so long; he was still weaker than he’d like to admit. Sitting up the way he was, he was above Steve, who was still settled firmly on the wooden floorboards. Steve looked up at him, eyes mischievous, and then in one fluid motion he leaned forward and sucked Bucky’s cock into his mouth.

Bucky faltered, falling forward slightly, eyes fluttering at the sensation of Steve’s warm, wet mouth around him. Steve’s hands wrapped around his waist, steadying him, as he sucked Bucky nearly all the way to the root. _When the fuck did he learn to do that?_ His cock was practically bumping against the back of Steve’s throat, and when he swallowed around it Bucky saw stars.

He picked back up where he’d left off, fingers curling against his prostate again while Steve sucked. He used the flat of his tongue to wrap around Bucky’s cock, pressing at the sensitive underside. Bucky could feel himself relaxing, opening up, and he added a third finger. It burned, but not as much as it had before. It would still be rough going though without any lube, but he didn’t care, couldn’t have stopped now even if he wanted to.

“Stop,” he said, pushing back at Steve’s shoulders. Steve pulled back. His lips were red and shiny with spit. “I’m ready.”

“Are you?” Steve’s brow was pinched in concern. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I don’t care,” Bucky said. “It’s fine, please, just fuck me.”

Steve didn’t seem convinced. He’d had no problem being rough or going without protection, but he seemed to take pause at the thought of actually hurting him.

“Please,” Bucky pleaded. He didn’t want to stop. He was ready, stretched from his own fingers, and relaxed from Steve’s mouth around his cock and the alcohol still coursing through him. “Please, Steve, I need you.”

That did it. Steve tightened the grip on his waist hard enough to leave bruises and tugged at him. Bucky complied gladly, sinking down into Steve’s lap and onto his cock with a gasp. There was resistance, but he pushed down as hard as he dared and finally Steve was in, filling him. It was the best kind of agony; everything he wanted and needed and had dreamed of for so long. He couldn’t hide his wince, so instead he wrapped his arms around Steve and buried his face in Steve’s neck. He mouthed at it, lips and tongue tracing patterns into Steve’s skin. He breathed hard through the pain, letting himself feel. He never wanted it to end.

Steve waited for him to adjust, but Bucky didn’t have the patience for that. He pushed himself up on his knees and slammed back down again, fucking himself on Steve’s cock. He did it again and again until Steve got the picture and took up some of the work, angling his hips and thrusting up to meet Bucky’s downward strokes. The rough wood of the porch tore at his knees, and he was sure Steve’s ass didn’t feel any better.

Each stab of Steve’s cock up into him was a reminder: he earned this pain. It was what he needed, what he deserved. Each thrust was another thing he did wrong, something else he failed at, another person he didn’t help. His eyes ached like he was crying, but when he brought a hand up to check his cheeks were dry. He gasped and whined and moaned into Steve’s neck, the sound muffled. He was being seared from the inside, flayed open, laid out on a dissecting board with pins piercing his organs, so everyone who saw him would know what he’d done wrong.

They gasped and clung to one another as their bodies worked in perfect harmony. Pushing and pulling, giving and taking, until Bucky wanted to cry with the perfection of it. In between thrusts and the perfect jolts of sensation that burst through his body, Bucky did his best to memorize the lines of Steve’s face. This was how he wanted him forever, blissed out and in pleasure.

Bucky came suddenly, with a sharp intake of breath, warm come smearing between their bodies. Steve followed quickly after with a long, drawn-out groan. They stilled, arms still locked tight around each other, both breathing heavily. Bucky could taste Steve’s sweat on his lips, salty and bitter.

“Thank you,” he said, voice muffled by Steve’s shoulder as he clutched at him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

He mumbled his gratitude at Steve all the way to his bedroom. Steve tried to steady him as they walked, but he was just as drunk as Bucky. They stumbled down the hallway, Steve in just his briefs and Bucky naked, their clothes abandoned in the yard. They’d get them in the morning. Bucky ducked into the bathroom on the way but didn’t look into the mirror. He didn’t want to look at himself right now, couldn’t. He wetted a towel and cleaned himself off and Steve did the same. They both fell into Bucky’s bed, exhausted, and were asleep within seconds.

 

\---

 

The next morning dawned clear and bright and with a breeze coming in from the north that carried with it the promise of fall. Bucky rose before the sun, Steve still snoring beside him, and got dressed. He took care of Winter and the chickens and then sat on the top of the steps.

The wood creaked beneath, the sound familiar and comforting in a way nothing else was. The porch had seen everything. It’d been where he’d first met Winter, where Becca and Kate played as children, where their parents had set up a table for dinner on nice spring nights. It had seen joy and love and anger and fear and fights. It had seen Bucky’s teenage heartbreak over Steve and the growing moodiness from Becca that seemed to be every girl’s rite of passage. He’d sat with Becca on this porch, and Steve, and they’d laughed together, feared for the future together, found hope together. 

He’d carried Becca’s body down these steps

He sat and watched the place where he knew Becca’s grave was. It wasn’t completely visible from here, but still he felt close to her. The sun came up slowly, taking its time to start the day, painting brilliant streaks of pink and gold and purple across the cloudless sky. The trees rustled, their leaves quaking in the breeze, and Winter barked as a squirrel ran across a limb out of her reach.

Eventually Steve woke up and joined him, settling down quietly beside him. Bucky laid a head on his shoulder as Steve stroked a hand through his hair.

He wished he could lie to himself and say that things got better after that. And they did, in a sense, but mostly they stayed the same. Time passed. The garden grew strong under Steve’s watch. Bucky taught him how to hunt in the woods behind the house. They didn’t go back into town and no one came out far enough to bother them either. As the days went by, Bucky spent less and less of his time by Becca’s grave, though he still made sure to go every day.

Life went on. He and Steve loved and laughed and fucked and fought, sometimes all at once. He wasn’t happy, but he wasn’t sad either, but something in between that seemed to defy all attempts to name it. He missed his parents and his sister horribly, but the same things that had taken them from him had given him back Steve.

He supposed, in the end, that was all he could do. Cry for what he missed and love what he had as fiercely as he could. And each morning that dawned over their little patch of the world, he and Steve would face it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading all the way to the end! I hope you enjoyed the story! For those of you who would like to know what happens to Bucky and Steve next, a sequel is in the works, so make sure you keep an eye out!


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